The Brahmin, the Sahib, and the Leopard
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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.
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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.
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By
Ananta Narayan Nanda
Bhubaneswar
29-08-2025
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Labels: Humour, short story
posted by The Unadorned | 1:26 AM
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