The Proxy and the Rebel

 ----------------------------------------------

Here is another story that made an incursion into the age of the freedom movement just to sound authentic. It has no intention of writing historical fiction, but I have seen people in real life getting freedom fighters’ pension without an iota of patriotic feeling. Sometimes, one wonders how their patriotism died as they entered independent India. Anyway, it is a story out and out, standing only on imagination.

_________________________________

The Proxy and the Rebel

Long, long ago, in the heyday of colonial feudalism, the zamindars—landlords without armies, without official posts, yet wielding unchecked power—were tasked with a straightforward duty: collect revenue from the peasants and deliver it to the British. In return, they enjoyed near-absolute authority over innocent rural folk. The law was said to exist, but it bent like a reed—unyielding against the poor, pliant before the rich. Between the zamindar and the peasant, the courts almost always punished the latter. Between zamindar and zamindar, the law merely mediated rivalries.

Among these lords lived a young heir, Gyan Vardhan Ray Bahadur, the son of a zamindar who had never attended school. Premier institutions in Calcutta, Raipur, Shimla, or Dehradun were reserved for those with both talent and wealth. Those without either remained confined to the care of local teachers, who taught Sanskrit, arithmetic, and scriptures at the landlord’s house.

But such pupils were often dull, unmotivated, and arrogant. The teachers, despairing at their lack of grasp, fumed in helpless rage. How could they vent their fury without risking their position? A zamindar’s son, like Gyan Vardhan, was beyond punishment. Yet there was a solution: a proxy.

A poor orphan from the village would be seated beside the zamindar’s son during lessons. His role was not to learn but to suffer. Whenever the landlord’s son failed to recite a verse or solve a sum, the orphan’s back bore the blows. He was beaten with sticks, slapped, and thrashed until the teacher’s temper cooled. He was not allowed to cry; tears only invited harsher punishment. Over time, his skin grew calloused, his spirit dulled. Still, every day he was flogged, for the zamindar’s son showed no improvement.

The zamindar’s heir, however, was a strapping youth—tall, curly-haired, and fair-complexioned. He looked better suited to acting in a dramatic troupe than to grappling with the tortures of arithmetic. The proxy, by contrast, was an emaciated child with no living family. He wore nothing but a gamcha—a loincloth—and his chest remained bare, even in winter. His name was Sukhram Das, ironically meaning “one who serves in the midst of plenty.” Whoever had named him seemed to have possessed grim foresight. Sukhram lost his childhood to his early appointment as the scapegoat of the rich.

Years rolled by. Sukhram, recruited at the age of eight, was now fourteen. He had memorised every prayer to Ganesh and Saraswati, mastered multiplication tables, and learned the alphabet—though no one had intended to teach him. The zamindar’s son, now eighteen, remained as foolish as ever, but more violent with each passing day.

One day, weary of his lessons, Gyan Vardhan ran away to a distant town. He had no plan for what to do, no vision for his future. By chance, he stumbled upon a procession of people in white dhotis and kurtas, holding flags and marching toward the seashore. Women, too, walked at the head of the crowd. Curious, he asked one of the participants what they were doing. He was told they were going to make salt.

Gyan Vardhan was puzzled. To him, salt was only a pinch in food—why would hundreds march for it? Yet his curiosity carried him to the seashore, where water was drawn in drums, wood was stacked, and earthen pots were set on hearths, filled with brine. He lingered until evening, fascinated by the gathering. Then the police platoons arrived and charged the crowd with lathis. Most dispersed, but when Gyan Vardhan tried to flee, he was caught and jailed. He learned only later that this was the Salt March of the non-cooperation movement led by Mahatma Gandhi.

He spent a year in prison. By the time he was released, his father’s zamindari had collapsed. For participating in an unlawful movement, their privileges were stripped away, and the family was reduced to a few acres of land. The grandeur of their prosperity had vanished before his return.

Years later, when India won independence, Gyan Vardhan found himself entitled to a freedom fighter’s pension. Ironically, though he had been a duffer at studies, he was now revered as a patriot, his pension allowing him to live decently without education or skill.

And Sukhram? With Gyan Vardhan gone, the little “education establishment” was dissolved. Sukhram was relieved, spared the daily torment of being a sitting target. By then, however, he had learned enough to qualify as a veranda teacher in the village. He taught children the alphabet, multiplication tables, primers, prayers, and Sanskrit slokas. In addition, he trained villagers in dramatic techniques for staging open-air theatre. Though unpaid for his drama instruction, he found joy in it.

Once, in 1972, during the Silver Jubilee of Indian Independence, someone curiously compared the incomes of both the proxy and the rebel and found the stark irony of their fate. Gyan Vardhan, once the pampered dullard, drew ₹500 a month as a freedom fighter’s pension. Sukhram, the boy who had endured years of proxy punishment, earned only ₹40 a month—five rupees per child—while his cultural service to the village dramatic troupe went unremunerated.

----------------------------------

By 

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

03-09-2025

---------------------------------

Reduced Price of the ebooks of My Titles

My Books on Amazon Portal 

==============================

Just thought I could inform here an important news.

Amazon has reduced the price of ebooks of two of my titles.

Ivory Imprint

https://amzn.in/d/2yignAe

Limited-time deal: The Legacy: Tales from the Postal Trail

https://amzn.in/d/eKdKWM3

------------------------------

ब्राह्मण, साहब और तेंदुआ: जहाँ गालियाँ बनीं संस्कृत, और तेंदुआ बना कुत्ता

 ---------------------------------------------

Here's the Hindi version of the story you waited to read. I hope the humorous moments from the original story have been conveyed accurately. I invite you to read, enjoy, comment, and share.    Happy reading!

---------------------------------------------

ब्राह्मण, साहब और तेंदुआ:

जहाँ गालियाँ बनीं संस्कृत, और तेंदुआ बना कुत्ता

-----------------

बहुत समय पहले हमारे गाँव में एक ब्राह्मण रहता था, जो “विशेष” था—पर वह आदरणीय अर्थ में नहीं, बल्कि एक अजीब और नकारात्मक अर्थ में।

उन दिनों, एक ब्राह्मण से अपेक्षा की जाती थी कि वह अपने गुरु के चरणों में बैठकर दस–पंद्रह साल तक संस्कृत सीखे, बेतुकी सजाओं को सहते हुए, और शब्दशः शास्त्रों को कंठस्थ करे। मगर हमारे इस “विशेष” ब्राह्मण को ऐसा कोई कष्ट नहीं उठाना पड़ा। उसने बिना गुरु के क्रोध झेले संस्कृत पर “प्रभुत्व” पा लिया।

असंभव लगता है? मुझे भी कभी ऐसा ही लगा था। लेकिन जल्द ही मुझे जवाब मिल गया—उसकी संस्कृत दरअसल गालियों का अथाह खजाना थी।

सच्चे पंडितों के लिए गालियाँ देना सख़्त वर्जित था। लेकिन उसके लिए संस्कृत और गाली—एक ही बात थी। और अपनी “भाषाई शस्त्रशाला” का प्रयोग करने में वह कभी असफल नहीं हुआ।

फिर भी, वह पंडितों की भीड़ में जीना जानता था। जब भी किसी के घर संस्कृतज्ञ ब्राह्मण भोजन के लिए जाते और शास्त्रोक्त मंत्रोच्चार कर यजमान को आशीर्वाद देते, तो यह ब्राह्मण सीधा चेहरा बनाए केवल होंठ हिलाकर उनकी नकल करता और बच निकलता।

कभी–कभी, जब किसी परिवार में श्राद्धपक्ष चल रहा होता और इसलिए वे स्वयं मंदिर में पूजा नहीं कर सकते थे, तो उनकी जगह यह ब्राह्मण बुलाया जाता। लेकिन वहाँ उसने अपनी गाली-भाषा का प्रयोग करने की हिम्मत नहीं की। हाँ, थोड़ी बहुत जुगाड़बाज़ी ज़रूर, मगर देवताओं का अपमान कभी नहीं।

फिर भी, लोग उससे डरते थे। वेद–पुराणों की विद्वता के लिए नहीं, बल्कि उसकी गालियों की बेमिसाल पकड़ के लिए। उसकी मौजूदगी ही भीड़ को खामोश करने के लिए काफ़ी थी, क्योंकि कोई भी उसके संस्कृत रूपी हथियार का शिकार नहीं होना चाहता था।

स्वच्छता भी उसके गुणों में नहीं थी। उसका जनेऊ, जो सामान्यतः उज्ज्वल और श्वेत होना चाहिए था, ढीला लटकता, मैला और काला हो चुका था—मानो धूप से झुलसी उसकी देह के रंग में घुल गया हो। उसकी धोती भी उसी कहानी की गवाही देती थी। कोई दस–बारह साल पहले मिली थी, अब किनारों से उधड़ी हुई, फटकर चिथड़ों में बदलने की कगार पर।

अन्य ब्राह्मणों को पूजा–अर्चना के अवसरों पर, यजमानों से नई धोती मिल जाती थी। पर हमारा “छाया संस्कृत” विद्वान कभी स्वतंत्र रूप से अनुष्ठान कराने योग्य नहीं समझा गया। इसलिए उसे धोती पाने का अवसर ही नहीं मिलता। वह वर्षों से उसी पुरानी धोती में गुज़ारा कर रहा था—नियति की टाँकों से जोड़ी और मजबूरी की सिलाई में पहनी जाती रही।

विवाह भी उसके लिए दुर्भाग्य साबित हुआ। वह अविवाहित किसी आध्यात्मिक संकल्प या ब्रह्मचर्य व्रत के कारण नहीं था, बल्कि इसलिए कि कोई परिवार अपनी बेटी ऐसे वर को नहीं देना चाहता था, जिसके पास “शुद्ध” संस्कृत का ज्ञान न हो। उस पवित्र योग्यता के बिना वह कभी योग्य वर नहीं माना गया।

इसलिए, वह अकेला ही जीता रहा। अपनी एक एकड़ की ज़मीन से किसी तरह जीवन काटता। ब्राह्मण होने के कारण हल चलाना धर्म–विरुद्ध माना जाता था, सो वह यह काम दूसरों पर छोड़ता। बाकी सारे काम वह ख़ुद करता। रोज़ धूप में झुलसता, दिन–दिन भर खेत में पसीना बहाता। धीरे–धीरे उसका शरीर श्रम की लकीरों से भर गया। उसकी देह और अधिक काली, उसका ढाँचा और दुबला होता गया—यहाँ तक कि वह पुजारी से ज़्यादा किसान लगता था।

उसके बारे में और भी बहुत-सी बातें हैं, मगर एक घटना ऐसी थी जब उसका “विशेष” हुनर बिल्कुल काम आया।

एक गर्म दोपहर, एक तेंदुआ गाँव में भटक आया और उसे उसका घर आराम की शरणगाह लगा। भीतर, मिट्टी के बर्तनों के पीछे एक अंधेरा कोना था। कालिख से काले हो चुके घड़ों से रगड़ खाकर तेंदुए की सुनहरी खाल पर धूसर धब्बे पड़ गए। वह शाही जानवर अब जंगल का राजा कम और एक मैले–कुचैले कुत्ते जैसा ज़्यादा लग रहा था।

उसी घड़ी, ब्राह्मण खेत से लौटा। भूख और प्यास से व्याकुल, केवल मट्ठा–भात की कामना लिए। वह उस अँधेरे कमरे में घुसा जहाँ बर्तन रखा था। तभी, तेंदुआ धीरे–धीरे बाहर निकला, आदमी से बेपरवाह, थके कुत्ते की चाल से।

क्षण भर को ब्राह्मण पहचान नहीं पाया। उसने सोचा पड़ोसी का काला कुत्ता भीतर आ गया है। और यह छोटी बात नहीं थी—कुत्ता अगर भात–पानी के घड़े वाले कमरे में घुस जाए, तो गाँव की प्रथा के अनुसार घड़ा अशुद्ध मानकर फेंकना पड़ता।

आधा भूखा वह आदमी ग़ुस्से से भर गया। अपनी भूख भूलकर वह कुत्ते समझे जानवर के पीछे दौड़ा, चिल्लाता, हाथ लहराता। जब क़रीब पहुँचा, तभी असलियत सामने आई—वह कुत्ता नहीं, बल्कि कालिख से सना हुआ पूरा का पूरा तेंदुआ था, जिसे लड़ाई से ज़्यादा नहाने की ज़रूरत थी।

ख़बर जंगल की आग की तरह फैली और ज़िला कलेक्टर के कानों तक पहुँची। वह अंग्रेज़ कलेक्टर शिकार का शौक़ीन था—ख़ासकर बाघों का। तेंदुआ भी उसके लिए किसी ख़ज़ाने से कम नहीं। उसने बिना देर किए गाँव की ओर दौरा तय कर लिया।

दोपहर तक कलेक्टर और उसका लाव–लश्कर गाँव पहुँच गया। उन्होंने हर जगह तलाश की, मगर शाम तक तेंदुए का कोई अता-पता नहीं मिला। सूरज ढलने ही वाला था कि अधीर साहब ने कहा—“कम से कम उस गवाह को तो लाओ, जिसने तेंदुए को देखा है।”

और बुलाया गया किसे? हमारे छाया संस्कृत विद्वान को! पूरे गाँव में और किसी को नहीं, सिर्फ़ उसी को। यह कम बात नहीं थी।

वह जैसे–तैसे सज–धज कर आया—वही पुरानी फटी धोती, ऊपर का बदन नंगा, बस मैला जनेऊ लटकता हुआ। उसे देखकर कलेक्टर अपनी हँसी रोक न सका। ठहाकों पर ठहाके मारता रहा, इतना कि दस मिनट तक सँभल ही न सका। अंततः उसने हँसी का कारण बताया—दरअसल ब्राह्मण की दयनीय शक्ल–सूरत ही उसके लिए मनोरंजन बन गई थी।

फिर उसने सवाल रखा—क्या उसने सचमुच तेंदुए को देखा था? शपथ लेकर कहे।

अब तक हमारा संस्कृत–गाली विद्वान क्रोध से लाल हो चुका था। वह अपनी ताक़त जानता था, अपनी भाषा जानता था, और पलटवार का वक़्त भी पहचानता था। साहब ने उसके चिथड़ों पर हँसी उड़ाई थी। जवाब भी चुभता हुआ होना था।

अचानक उसने धोती उतार फेंकी, अपने गुप्तांग को हाथ में पकड़कर गरजा:

“जिस अंग को मैं पकड़ रहा हूँ—जो स्वयं भगवान शिव का जीवित अवतार है—उसकी सौगंध खाकर कहता हूँ कि मैंने तेंदुआ देखा है। तुम शिव में विश्वास करते हो? तुम पाश्चात्य लोग धर्म नहीं जानते। आओ, इस अंग को छुओ और पुण्य कमाओ!”

साहब का चेहरा सुर्ख़ हो गया। उसके सब्र का बाँध टूट गया। उसने एक पल भी और ठहरना गवारा नहीं किया, घोड़े पर सवार हुआ और गाँव छोड़ दिया।

किस्मत से, हमारे ब्राह्मण पर कोई कानूनी गाज़ नहीं गिरी। पुलिस नहीं आई, कोई दंड नहीं मिला—हालाँकि उसने एक सम्मानित अंग्रेज़ अफ़सर के सामने अपनी नग्नता दिखाई थी। शायद भीतर से कलेक्टर ने अपनी भूल समझ ली थी: उसने एक ग़रीब की इज़्ज़त का मज़ाक उड़ाया था। और ग़रीब से ग़रीब प्रजा में भी अपनी अडिग आत्मसम्मान की लौ जलती रहती है।

-------------------------

By

अनन्त नारायण नन्द 

भुवनेश्वर 

31-08-2025 

---------------------------------------

The Brahmin, the Sahib, and the Leopard

 

----------------------------------------

It's a funny anecdote being told and retold in our village with verve. I have heard it long ago, the details of which are unprintable. However, I sweated to make it presentable, omitting something that only the Sanskrit scholar could utter. Aha! The good olden days! Happy reading.

---------------------------------------------

The Brahmin, the Sahib, and the Leopard

Long, long ago, there lived a Brahmin in our village who was “special”, not in the revered sense, but in a very unusual, negative way.

In those days, a Brahmin was expected to learn Sanskrit by sitting at the feet of his guru for ten or fifteen years, enduring endless punishments and memorising scriptures word for word. But our “special” Brahmin had no such ordeal. He mastered Sanskrit without ever facing the wrath of a teacher.

Impossible? That’s what I thought once, too. But soon I found the answer: his brand of Sanskrit was nothing but a vast treasury of swear words.

For true scholars, uttering abuses was strictly prohibited. But for him, Sanskrit and swear words were interchangeable. He never failed in deploying his “linguistic arsenal.”

Yet he knew how to survive among the learned. Whenever he accompanied other Brahmins to a ritual meal at someone’s house, the real scholars would chant verses in the prescribed meter and bless the host. Our Brahmin, with a straight face, would move his lips in silent mimicry…and escape undetected.

Sometimes, when a family observing a fortnight of mourning (and hence barred from temple rituals) needed someone to perform puja in their place, this Brahmin would step in. On those occasions, he did not dare to recite his abusive Sanskrit. Improvisation, yes; desecration, never.

Still, everyone feared him. Not for his knowledge of the Vedas, but for his unrivalled command over swear words. His presence was enough to silence a crowd, for no one wanted to be at the receiving end of his Sanskrit.

Cleanliness was certainly not one of his virtues. His sacred thread, instead of gleaming white as expected of a Brahmin, hung loose, grimy, and black, blending seamlessly with the dark hue of his sun-burnt skin. His dhoti told the same story. Acquired some ten or twelve years ago, it was now frayed and almost ready to be downgraded to the status of tatters.

Other Brahmins had the privilege of receiving new dhotis on ritual occasions, offered as gifts by grateful hosts. But our “shadow Sanskrit” scholar was never entrusted with conducting rituals independently. Thus, he never had the chance to earn a dhoti. He managed year after year with the same decade-old garment, patched by fate and worn by resignation.

Marriage was another misfortune. He was not unmarried out of spiritual conviction or any lofty vow of celibacy, but because no family wanted to entrust their daughter to a groom without the knowledge of “pure” Sanskrit. Without that sacred qualification, he was never considered a suitable match.

So, he lived alone, sustaining himself from his meagre one-acre farm. As a Brahmin, he was not supposed to touch the plough as the tradition forbade it, and so he depended on others for that task. But every other work, he did himself. Day after day, he toiled under the blazing sun, his body slowly absorbing the marks of labour. His skin grew darker, his frame leaner, until he looked less like a priestly worshipper and more like a humble farmer.

There are many more details about our shadow Sanskrit scholar, but let me not lose track of the one episode where his peculiar “talent” unexpectedly matched the occasion.

One summer noon, a leopard strayed into the village and found his house a quiet and inviting place for rest. Inside, behind the cooking pots, there was a perfect dark corner. The earthen pots, long blackened with soot, brushed against the leopard’s golden skin and smeared its coat with dull black patches. The proud beast now looked less like a jungle prince and more like a bedraggled mongrel.

At that very hour, our Brahmin returned from his fieldwork, parched with hunger and thirst, longing for his humble meal of fermented rice water. He stepped into the dark room where the pot was kept. At that instant, the leopard moved out slowly, unbothered by the man, padding its way like a tired house-dog.

For a moment, the Brahmin did not realise what it was. He thought it was merely the neighbour’s black dog sneaking into the house. And a dog inside the rice-pot room was no small matter, and by village custom, the pot was considered defiled and had to be thrown away.

The poor man, already half-starved, lost his temper. Forgetting his hunger, he chased after the animal, shouting and waving his arms. Only when he drew closer did he see the truth: it was not a dog but a full-grown leopard, its coat smeared with soot, looking as though it needed a proper wash more than a fight.

The news spread quickly and soon reached the ears of the District Collector, a Britisher with a keen passion for shikar. Tigers were his obsession; a leopard would do just as well. Without delay, he planned an immediate tour to our village.

By afternoon, the Collector and his entourage had reached the village. They searched every corner for the leopard, but till evening there was no trace of the beast. As the sun dipped low, the impatient sahib demanded that at least the witness of the leopard be produced before him.

And who else but our shadow Sanskrit scholar! No one else in the village was summoned—only him. That was no small matter.

He dressed himself as best as he could: the same tattered dhoti, his upper half bare except for the grimy sacred thread that clung loosely to his body. When he appeared, the Collector could not control himself. He burst into laughter, doubled over, laughing so hard that for ten whole minutes he could not speak. At last, he tried to explain his amusement: it was simply the man’s pitiable appearance that had tickled him so.

Then he came to the point. He asked the Brahmin to swear, to speak on oath whether he had truly seen the leopard.

By now, our Sanskrit scholar was seething. He knew his “talent,” he knew his language, and he knew when to strike back. The Collector mocked his tatters, and the man at the receiving end retaliated in his own unique style.

With sudden defiance, he flung aside his dhoti, held his genitals in his hand, and declared:

“By the organ I hold—the living incarnation of Lord Shiva—I swear I have seen the leopard. Do you believe in Lord Shiva? You westerners know nothing of religion. Touch this organ and gain some spiritual merit!”

The sahib’s face turned crimson. He had no patience left to hear another word. He mounted his horse and left the village at once.

By some stroke of fortune, our Brahmin was spared the wrath of the law. No police came to punish the audacious villager who had dared to bare himself before a respectable sahib. Perhaps, deep within, the Collector realised his folly: that he had mocked a poor man’s dignity. And even the lowest subject, however ragged, carried within him an unshakable sense of self-respect.

----------------------

By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

29-08-2025

-------------------------------

सौ रुपये का नोट

 

सौ रुपये का नोट

उन दिनों जब मैं बच्चा था, अच्छा खाना खाना हर बच्चे का सपना होता था। अगर बीस किलोमीटर दूर कहीं भोज होता, तो हम नंगे पाँव वहाँ दौड़ जाते, जी भरकर खाते और उसी दिन—या रात—लौट भी आते। दावत में बिना बुलाए जाना कोई बेइज़्ज़ती नहीं थी; ख़ासकर बीस किलोमीटर के दायरे में तो बिलकुल नहीं, जहाँ हम वैसे भी परिचित चेहरे थे—अपनी खाने की लालसा के लिए मशहूर।

कभी-कभी मेज़बान हमें एक-एक चवन्नी भी दे देता—यानी एक रुपये का चौथाई। उसका कहना होता कि बच्चों में वह भगवान को देखता है और उसका सम्मान करता है। भोज कई मौक़ों पर होते थे: बच्चे के जन्म से पहले होने वाली रस्म—जिसे अब बेबी शॉवर कहते हैं—गृह प्रवेश में, किसी की मृत्यु के बाद, या शादी-ब्याह में। व्यंजन सादे होते—चिउड़ा (मुरमुरा) पतली छाछ के साथ, शीरा (तरल गुड़), और कद्दू समेत तरह-तरह की सब्जियों की मिली-जुली तरकारी। शादियों का भोजन थोड़ा बेहतर होता, मगर आजकल की भव्यता के सामने कुछ भी नहीं—अब तो हाल यह है कि जितना बचा हुआ खाना होता है, आवारा कुत्ते भी ख़त्म नहीं कर पाते। और अगर किसी गाय ने मसालेदार बचा हुआ खाना खा लिया, तो उसका पेट फूल जाता है; कभी-कभी वह मर भी जाती है।

अरे, मैं विषय से भटक रहा हूँ। चलिए, सीधे किस्से पर आता हूँ।

एक बार, मुझसे दोगुनी उम्र का कोई मुझे पंद्रह किलोमीटर दूर बाज़ार ले जाने बुला लाया। मैंने बिना सोचे मान लिया कि आने-जाने में तीस किलोमीटर पैदल चलना होगा—सिर्फ़ कुछ अच्छे नाश्ते की उम्मीद में। हम दोनों नंगे पाँव थे। सौ गाँव वालों में तब मुश्किल से दस के पास चप्पल होती। मेरे पैरों में हमेशा बाँस की सुइयाँ और बेर की काँटें चुभे रहते—ग़रीबी की निशानी, बेर के स्वाद से कहीं ज़्यादा।

चलते-चलते मेरे बड़े साथी ने वही अनिवार्य सवाल किया: “अगर तुम्हें सड़क पर सौ रुपये का नोट मिल जाए, तो क्या करोगे?”

मैंने पलटकर नहीं कहा, “सिर्फ़ सौ ही क्यों, और ज़्यादा क्यों नहीं?” बल्कि सीधा जवाब दिया: “पहले तो मैं आलू दम खाऊँगा—उबले आलू जो मिर्च-मसालों में डूबे हों। इसमें एक रुपया लगेगा। फिर मैं मुरमुरा लूँगा, उसमें आलू दम और पकौड़े मिलाकर मज़े से खाऊँगा। पाँच रुपये ख़र्च।”

“बाक़ी पचानवे?” उसने पूछा।

“तुम दस रुपये के नाश्ते खाओगे,” मैंने बड़ेपन से कहा। आख़िर उसने ही तो मुझे पूरा काल्पनिक नोट सौंप दिया था।

वह मुस्कुराया। उसकी सूची और भी लंबी थी—समोसे, रसगुल्ले, पकौड़े—कम-से-कम पंद्रह रुपये के। क्या मैं उसका बिल चुकाऊँगा? हाँ, ज़रूर।

अब मेरे पास पचासी रुपये बचे। क्या करूँ? मुझे अपने दोस्तों का ख़याल आया। “दस रुपये की टॉफ़ियाँ खरीदूँगा और सबमें बाँट दूँगा। जब तक टॉफ़ियाँ रहेंगी, मैं उनका नेता रहूँगा।”

पचहत्तर रुपये बचे थे। वह पतंग उड़ाने का मौसम था। मैं हमेशा काइट रनर रहा—गिरी हुई पतंगें और टूटी डोरियाँ बटोरकर ही काम चलाता। एक बार तो मैं पेड़ से गिरकर केवड़े की झाड़ियों में जा अटका, और आश्चर्य यह कि मुझे ज़रा भी चोट नहीं लगी। अब दस रुपये में असली पतंग और असली डोर खरीदने का सपना पूरा होने वाला था!

पैंसठ बचे। मुझे अपनी सात बहनें याद आईं—सब मुझसे बड़ी, और सबसे छोटी मुझसे बस एक साल बड़ी—मेरी झगड़ालू प्रतिद्वंद्वी। मैंने ठान लिया कि बाक़ी सब उन्हें दे दूँगा। लेकिन गणित ने उलझा दिया। सात को दस से गुणा करूँ तो सत्तर बनता है, जो मेरे पास से पाँच रुपये ज़्यादा था। फिर सात को नौ से गुणा किया—तरेसठ हुआ, जबकि मेरे पास पैंसठ थे। कैसे बाँटूँ? गुणा-भाग के ज्ञान किसी काम के नहीं आए। लेकिन जब तक हम शहर पहुँचे, हल मिल गया: छह बहनों को दस-दस रुपये, और झगड़ालू वाली को सिर्फ़ पाँच रुपये की सज़ा!

मैंने पूरे सौ रुपये ख़र्च कर दिए—बिना उन्हें छुए ही।

सफ़ेद मरहम:

अब मेरे साथी की बारी आई मुझे खिलाने की। लेकिन पहले उसकी ख़रीदारी करनी थी। हम एक दुकान पहुँचे—नाम था चाँदसी। दरवाज़े तारकोल से काले पुते हुए, और उस पर चॉक से बना साँप का चित्र। यह यूनानी दवाओं की दुकान थी। मेरे दोस्त की उँगली टूटी हुई थी और हमेशा दुखती थी; वह मालिश के लिए सफ़ेद मरहम लेना चाहता था।

उसके पास सिर्फ़ पचास पैसे थे—आधा रुपया। योजना यह थी: पच्चीस पैसे का मरहम और पच्चीस पैसे से मुझे खिलाना। लेकिन दुकानदार ने पूरा पचास माँग लिया। अब दोस्त असमंजस में—या तो मुझे खिलाए और अपनी उँगली का दर्द झेले, या फिर दवा खरीदे और दोनों भूखे घर लौटें।

उसने फ़ैसला मुझ पर छोड़ा। तब तक मैं अपनी काल्पनिक दौलत से इतना सीख चुका था कि तुरंत कह दिया: “मरहम खरीद लो। चलो घर चलते हैं। कल तालाब से मछली पकड़ेंगे—उसने मुझे कभी खाली नहीं लौटाया।”

उस दिन दावत सिर्फ़ कल्पना में रही। लेकिन वह पैदल यात्रा, भूख का गणित, और साँप-चित्र वाली दुकान—आज भी आलू दम की किसी थाली से ज़्यादा ताज़ा याद है।

-------------------------

By

अनन्त नारायण नन्द 

भुवनेश्वर 

26-08-2025 

--------------------------------

A Hundred-Rupee Note

 ----------------------------------------------------

The story finished earlier than I planned. As they say, eat your dinner when ready. There is a charm to serving the dinner hot, more than it feels to munch it hot. Here's a story that tries to pack pathos and humour at the same time. Hope my readers like it.

-------------------------------------------------------------

A Hundred-Rupee Note

In those days when I was a child, eating nice food was every child’s dream. If a feast were being thrown twenty kilometres away, we would rush there barefoot, eat heartily, and return the same day—or night. Gate-crashing was no dishonour; certainly not within a radius of twenty kilometres, where we were familiar faces anyway—famous for our epicurean proclivity.

Sometimes, the host would even pay us twenty-five paise—one-fourth of a rupee. They said they saw the god in us children and honoured us. Feasts were many: before an expectant mother’s delivery—what they now call a baby shower—at housewarmings, after a death, or during marriages. The menu was simple: puffed rice with watery buttermilk, gur or semi-liquid molasses, a mixed curry of pumpkin and sundry vegetables. Marriage feasts were slightly better, though nothing compared to today’s extravaganzas—nowadays, even stray dogs cannot finish what is wasted, and if a cow tastes the over-spiced leftovers, her tummy bloats; sometimes, she dies.

Oh, no! I’m waffling. Without further filibuster, let me go straight to the anecdote.

The Hundred-Rupee Game

Once, someone twice my age invited me to the market fifteen kilometres away. I agreed without calculating that the round trip would mean thirty kilometres of walking—just for the promise of good snacks. Both of us were barefoot. Out of a hundred villagers back then, hardly ten owned flip-flops. Bamboo splinters and berry thorns forever pierced my feet—souvenirs of poverty more than the berries were of taste.

As we walked and chatted, my elder companion opened the inevitable topic:

“If you find a hundred-rupee note on the road, what will you do?”

I didn’t quibble, “Why only a hundred, why not more?” Instead, I jumped straight in:

“First, I’ll eat aloo dum—potatoes boiled and drowned in spices and chillies. That will cost me one rupee. Then I’ll buy puffed rice, mix it with aloo dum, fritters and relish. Five rupees gone.”

“And the remaining ninety-five?” he asked.

“You’ll eat snacks worth ten rupees,” I declared generously. After all, it was his magnanimity that let me keep the whole imaginary note.

My elder smiled. His own list was grander: samosas, rasgullas, fritters—for fifteen rupees at least. Would I sponsor him? Of course, yes.

Now I still had eighty-five left. What to do? I thought of my friends. “Ten rupees for lozenges to distribute among them. I’ll be their leader as long as the stock lasts.”

Seventy-five left. It was kite-flying season. I had always been a kite-runner, collecting fallen threads from trees—once I fell from a tree onto a pandanus bush and hardly sustained any injury. With ten rupees, I would finally buy real kites and thread. A dream was about to be realised!

Sixty-five remained. I remembered my seven sisters—all elder to me, the youngest just a year older, my quarrelsome rival. I wanted to give them the rest. But arithmetic puzzled me. I could not provide ten rupees each, because seven times ten would be seventy, exceeding my available amount. Then I tried seven times nine—it came to sixty-three, yet I had sixty-five. How to divide? Multiplication and division are of no use. However, by the time we reached town, the solution struck: six sisters would get ten rupees each, and the quarrelsome one would be punished with only five!

I had spent the entire hundred without ever holding it in my hand.

The White Ointment

Now came my companion’s turn to feed me. But first things first; he had shopping to do. We stopped at a shop called Chandsi, its black tar-painted doors marked with a chalk drawing of a snake. It was a Unani medicine shop. My friend had a fractured finger that always pained him; he wanted white ointment to massage it.

He had only fifty paise—half a rupee. He planned to buy the ointment for twenty-five paise and feed me with the other twenty-five. But the shopkeeper demanded all fifty for a packet. My friend was in a fix: either feed me and leave his finger untreated, or buy medicine and let both of us go hungry.

He turned to me for judgment. By then, I had learned enough from my imaginary fortune to decide swiftly:

“Buy the ointment. Let’s go home. Tomorrow, we’ll catch fish from the pond—it has never sent me back empty-handed.”

That day, the feast was in imagination only. But the walk, the arithmetic of hunger, and the snake-painted shop remain fresher in memory than any plate of aloo dum.

--------------------------------

By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

24-08-2025

----------------------------------