The Birth of a Housing Society

 

The Birth of a Housing Society

There was once a family so perfectly balanced that it could have impressed a statistician. Two brothers lived together under one roof with their wives and children—each couple blessed with one son and one daughter. As a result, the household consisted of two men, two women, two boys, and two girls: a neat arithmetic harmony.

This demographic symmetry wasn’t accidental. It was a continuation of their late father’s dying advice: “Stay together, come what may.” And so they did—living as a joint family, rationing food, milk, vegetables, and even sweets with a discipline that could put government planners to shame. They were not rich, but they had enough to maintain their household and sustain their smiles. Their modest grocery business brought neither joy in a boom nor anxiety in a slump; it simply kept the family afloat with quiet consistency.

Both families were non-vegetarian, though the wives had initially declared abstinence from mutton and chicken after marriage—out of newly-wedded piety, perhaps. That resolve lasted two years, until their husbands, tired of cooking meat themselves, gently requested them to resume their old food habits. The request was met not with hesitation but with delight; apparently, they had only been waiting for the invitation.

And thus, this minor culinary discord melted away—almost as if, for the first time, the fragrance of true harmony had wafted through the joint family kitchen.

The children were still quite young—the youngest only five. As they grew, one wondered if they had learnt the rules of good behaviour even before they were born, for they behaved as if discipline came pre-installed. The eldest, a fifteen-year-old girl, was blossoming into a confident and graceful young woman, earning a reputation as an all-rounder, with a particular flair for cooking and painting.

Everything in that household operated in perfect harmony—until one looked a little closer.

The elder brother, Sushant, was a maverick. He questioned old customs, challenged superstitions, and preferred logic over ritual. His younger brother, Sumant, was gentler and more accommodating. Domestic peace was largely maintained by Binoo, Sushant’s devout wife, who balanced her husband’s rationalism with an excess of religiosity—sometimes even overriding him.

Yet Sushant held firm on two non-negotiable principles: (1) The family would worship only the deities their father had worshipped—no new Babas, no self-styled Gurujis. (2) They would never sell their father’s ancestral land to any builder or developer.

In hindsight, Sushant sensed a strange chain of cause and effect—first, the emergence of new gods; then, the breakdown of joint families; and, somewhere in between the two, bulldozers replacing ancestral bungalows with matchbox flats. As it transpired, both his cherished principles would soon be tested—and weakened.

When Sushant had formulated those must-directives, everyone had agreed with him. The principles looked innocuous enough—like hanging a garland of lemons and green chillies, or an ash gourd, at the doorstep to ward off evil eyes.

However, soon thereafter, Minoo, Sumant’s wife, introduced a new spiritual flavour to the household, conveniently ignoring Sushant’s edict. It began with her hanging a wall calendar featuring Shri Shri Guruji Babaji, who lately had been seen on the walls and in the puja rooms of others.

Minoo’s father was an avid devotee of Guruji Babaji, whose socio-spiritual empire was rapidly expanding through networking and strategic squatting on government land. Minoo claimed her father’s asthma disappeared as soon as he received Babaji’s mantra and a vial of “magic water” from his ashram. Naturally, she wished her husband to follow the same divine path—for the glory of the family and its business.

Sumant hesitated. “I can’t become anyone’s disciple without my elder brother’s permission,” he said.

So Minoo approached Sushant directly. She knew he was fond of her—always calling her Chhoti Bahu—and hoped her plea would melt his heart. She spoke of her father’s miraculous recovery with tearful conviction.

Sushant listened patiently and smiled. “Look, Chhoti Bahu,” he said gently, “thanks to our father’s blessings, no one in this family suffers from asthma. So, Guruji Babaji has no assignment here.”

Days later, Sumant came armed with fresh testimonials—one devotee of Guruji Babaji had won a lottery, another had been reinstated after suspension. Sushant chuckled. “We’re neither gamblers nor government servants. We run a grocery store. Tell your Guruji to bless those who buy lottery tickets or face departmental inquiries.”

No amount of persuasion worked. Babaji remained outside the gates.

Then came another tempter—the builder. He told the ladies that their neighbour had sold his plot in exchange for two flats in a new apartment complex. “Imagine,” he said, “private kitchens, personal balconies—your own space!” The idea spread like wildfire through the family.

When Sushant heard the whispers, he remained unmoved. “Why do we need two flats when the existing six rooms already house eight people?” he reasoned. “Look how exhausted the ladies are maintaining one house—imagine the burden of two!”

Finally, the builder himself called on Sushant, only to be turned away at the door. The atmosphere grew tense. All their ambitions to “move forward” were thus thwarted by the elder brother, the senior-most member of the joint family. Such a hindrance!

Not long after, a new visitor appeared—a man claiming to be Guruji Babaji’s senior disciple and astrologer-in-chief to several powerful politicians. He spoke with ominous calm:

Your household lacks peace, and this is a recent development. An unseen malevolent force is creeping into your home. As is often the case, it first causes discord, then financial hardship, and ultimately illness. Only our Guruji Babaji can prevent this.

When Sushant scoffed, the man mentioned migraines among the afflictions Babaji could heal. Ironically, Sushant did suffer from migraine attacks. Out of curiosity—or perhaps politeness—he accepted a small bottle of “blessed water.”

A week later, the disciple returned for feedback.

“There’s some effect,” Sushant said vaguely, eager to end the exchange.

“Then,” said the man eagerly, “accept Guruji Babaji as your Guru. His divine halo will cure everything—and then you’ll live happily forever.”

This time, Sushant lost his temper. “You people are trying to trap my family into your cult. It won’t work!”

But alas! Before leaving, the man dropped a bombshell:

“Your younger brother Sumant has already accepted Babaji’s mentorship. He’s even climbed a few rungs in Guruji Babaji’s spiritual hierarchy—and receives a stipend from the new devotees’ offerings!”

The revelation shook the household. Confronted, Sumant admitted the truth. Tension boiled over.

The very next day, the builder reappeared—offering the same tempting deal: two flats, not a rupee's worth of investment. Weary of conflict and wary of further manipulation, Sushant relented, and the ancestral land was handed over. The builder housed the family in a rented place at his own expense, demolished the old home, completed the construction within eighteen months, and finally handed Binu and Meenu the keys to two gleaming flats—ready for occupation.

Months later, the bitter irony surfaced: whispers circulated that the “ace disciple” of Babaji—armed with astrological acumen—had also received a flat as his commission for convincing the brothers to sell their homestead plot. He was, in fact, Minoo’s father’s trusted agent or proxy, although the truth about that ownership remained neatly buried for the time being.

The joint family still lived together—but now divided by concrete walls instead of invisible harmony. Instead of one kitchen, two kitchens became operational! Though they continued to sit together at meals, there was a doubt about how long this arrangement would last. It was open to doubt whether such an arrangement would endure! The builder profited by crores; the disciple gained a flat; and Guruji Babaji acquired two new followers—along with a generous donation.

When the brothers moved into their separate flats, Binoo and Minoo handled the shifting, while Sushant focused on two sacred installations—the family deity and their father’s photograph. Both were carried to his flat: God to remain under Binoo’s care, and Father to adorn Sushant’s bedroom wall.

Sumant, meanwhile, installed an expensive portrait of Shri Shri Guruji Babaji in his new divine room, inaugurating it with chants and offerings. Babaji himself blessed the occasion with a recorded video message, later posted on social media, where it attracted millions of views. In the caption, Minoo claimed to have collected Bibhuti dust from the sacred portrait of their most revered mentor. How blessed they were!

Luckily, Sushant fell ill on that holy day—sparing himself the ordeal of attending the installation ceremony of Shri Shri Guruji Babaji. Lying in bed, he found himself unable to imagine what the future might hold, however hard he tried.

Weeks later, sitting in his plush new living room, Sushant smiled wryly.
“So,” he murmured, “Babaji did perform a miracle after all—he converted a joint family into a housing society.”

They were still discussing a name for the society—preferably one beginning with the prefix Guruji Babaji.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

30/10/2025

Bhubaneswar

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Visit the following Amazon links for the ebook of the author's The Legacy: Tales from the Postal Trail 

 https://amzn.in/d/02gtbab

Visit the following Amazon links for the paperback of the author's The Legacy: Tales from the Postal Trail 

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Revised Amazon links for My Books

So far, I have uploaded all my books to Amazon to make them available to my readers as ebooks and paperbacks, regardless of where they live. I have also shared the links with many of my contacts; they find them handy when ordering them from Amazon. In addition, I have included these links here. It is yet another place where such links are available.

******         ******         ******

Novel -- Ivory Imprint 

Link for ebook -- https://amzn.in/d/3pXTQi6

Link for paperback -- https://amzn.in/d/egyKzZA

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Short story collection -- The Remix of Orchid 

Link for ebook -- https://amzn.in/d/eLPcHk2

Link for paperback -- https://amzn.in/d/9y7cAXF

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Short story collection -- विरासत (in Hindi)

Link for ebook -- विरासत (Hindi Edition) https://amzn.in/d/7l9URfS

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Short story collection -- The Legacy: Tales from the Postal Trail

Link for ebook -- The Legacy: Tales from the Postal Trail https://amzn.in/d/02gtbab

Link for paperback -- The Legacy: Tales from the Postal Trail https://amzn.in/d/8u41U6Y

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Short story collection -- एक साल बाद 

Link for ebook -- एक साल बाद (Hindi Edition) https://amzn.in/d/bus6vBa

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Short story collection -- Stories Old and New 

Link for ebook -- Stories Old and New https://amzn.in/d/4LJB6WW

Link for paperback -- Stories Old and New https://amzn.in/d/iLtZAwc

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Short Story Collection – Midnight Biryani and Other Stories

Link for ebook— https://amzn.in/d/dR7bGmO

Link for paperback— https://a.co/d/czwKpTu

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

By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

29/10/2025

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Ghan vs Shyam: A Tale of Foibles

 

Ghan vs Shyam: A Tale of Foibles

Ghan and Shyam are both past fifty now—their hair greying, their knees groaning—but one thing remains stubbornly unchanged: their endless rivalry. They have been locked in a comic contest since the days when their most prized possessions were a clay marble, a wooden spinning top, or a bright red balloon.

It began innocently enough in childhood. If one boy had a shiny new pen, the other had to flaunt a fancier one. If one learned a new trick with a spinning top, the other tried to top it—pun fully intended. And, amusingly enough, if one sported a band-aid over a scratch, the other would stick one on too—even without a wound to show for it!

But things escalated the day they both fell for the same neighbourhood girl, Moosie. She was pretty, clever, and shamelessly opportunistic. Each boy tried to outdo the other with gifts—flowers, chocolates, hair clips—and she graciously accepted them all, professing her "exclusive" affection to each.

Then came the twist: one of them stole the other’s belongings and gave them to Moosie to win her favour. Not to be outdone, the other did the same, pilfering his rival’s things in return. The plan backfired spectacularly when the girl herself was accused of theft. The stolen objects, such as a mouth organ and a toy bioscope, were soon recovered from Moosie’s possession, and the elders themselves took charge of the search-and-seizure operation. Terrified of punishment, both boys denied ever giving her anything and painted Moosie as a greedy liar. The poor girl carried that stigma for the rest of her life, while the boys—rivals just moments earlier—suddenly became allies in the name of self-preservation.

Their fragile truce lasted two weeks. Then came the next skirmish: someone had drawn a cheeky cartoon on the classroom blackboard just before the lady Social Studies teacher entered. The culprit, Ghan, was caught and punished.

Shyam, wearing a halo of false sympathy, brought him a sweet—a lozenge—as consolation. Ghan ate it. Moments later, Shyam danced with glee, announcing that the lozenge had been fished out of a drain.

The teacher overheard. Both boys were punished: Ghan for the cartoon, Shyam for the disgusting prank. But Shyam insisted he’d been punished more severely—“I had stones under my knees for thirty minutes, while you just stood on one leg for fifteen!” Ghan teased him mercilessly, fuelling his rival’s rage.

Revenge brewed. Shyam convinced Ghan that parroting from the textbook wouldn’t earn good marks. He offered to give answers from a different book—from another school’s recommended textbooks—and Ghan, trusting his memory, memorised them faithfully.

During the test, Shyam accused Ghan of cheating. When the teacher checked, Ghan’s answers matched the other book word-for-word. It was only a class test, the teacher remarked, and yet Ghan had copied so shamelessly. If he could resort to unfair means for just ten marks, what would he do in the final exam? Ghan was punished “to reform him,” while Shyam was praised as a vigilant whistle-blower. Their scorecard of rivalry, however, was far from settled.

Years passed in a swirl of small victories and defeats, with revenge as their common theme and constant fuel. Then both married…  and, as if by some divine trickery, each ended up with an equally beautiful wife: Ganga for Ghan and Yamuna for Shyam. The two women quickly became close friends, leaving the men with no edge at all in their imaginary beauty contest.

Meanwhile, Ghan and Shyam left their village behind and moved to the town to pursue white-collar jobs in different offices. Yet when the time came to buy houses, something curious happened. Whether by coincidence or secret consultation, only God knows—but they ended up choosing the same apartment building, on the same floor, in the same wing. Judging by how things turned out, one might suspect that it was Ganga and Yamuna, not Ghan and Shyam, who had really made that decision where to build their nest.

When the old love-rivalry refused to ignite in this new phase—smothered by the easy camaraderie between the two beautiful ladies—even the gods who had been following Ghan and Shyam’s saga of one-upmanship seemed disappointed. Worse still, the two men themselves were let down, robbed of their favourite sport of clever manoeuvres and petty victories.

Then came the next natural arena: inter-child rivalry. However, fate refused to cooperate here as well. Ghan’s wife gave birth to two lovely daughters, while Shyam’s wife had two handsome sons. Instead of competing, they bonded as though they were siblings from the same family—quarrelling briefly over a comic book or a bindi, then sharing a mango slice by slice. They wandered in and out of each other’s homes so freely that neighbours often struggled to remember which child belonged where. The soil for the legendary Ghan-Shyam rivalry, it seemed, had turned barren. Tradition itself looked ready to die out.

Still, their rivalry was destined to take one more unexpected turn. Life shifted course when both men brought their aged mothers from the village to live with them in the city.

Then fate intervened. Within two years, Ghan’s mother passed away, freeing his family from the heavy burden of constant care. But Shyam’s mother, almost immediately after arriving from the village, suffered a paralytic stroke and now required continuous attention. Often, in his heart, Shyam would think—Who knows when this wretched illness will end, and when we will finally be freed from this endless duty of care!

Ghan invited Shyam to his mother’s funeral—it was a matter of customary obligation. As Chanakya once said, “The true test of friendship lies in whether a friend stands by you at the cremation ground.” But Shyam did not go. He stayed away from the funeral, and yet he wept—those tears were so genuine, so unrestrained!

It was truly strange. Ghana, the bereaved son, remained calm, while Shyam—whose mother was still alive—wept bitterly.

“You’re luckier than me, my friend,” he told Ghan. “Your mother is gone. Mine still lives… and keeps us suffering day and night. By sheer good fortune, you’ve stolen a march over me.”

What? One stealing a march over the other? Even over the death of their mothers?

It was the strangest moment of all—the loser mourning the winner. Even death could not end their rivalry; it had merely changed the arena.

And so it goes—from marbles to mothers, from drain-dipped sweets to deadly profound grief—Ghana and Shyam’s rivalry never really ends. Perhaps it isn’t hatred that binds them, but a shared refusal to let the other rest in peace… figuratively, of course.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

24-10-2025

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[Author's Story Book "The Remix of Orchids" is available on Amazon portal accessible here at the link  https://amzn.in/d/f4ndXQ7 ]

The Trinket Case

 

The Trinket Case

Vimal, now fifty, recently stumbled upon a definition of existentialism on the internet: “Human beings are born without inherent purpose; they must create meaning for their lives through their actions.” Everything else in the world, he read, has a purpose already assigned—either created by humans for a reason or existing in nature with a defined role.

The idea struck him profoundly because it reflected something he had done long ago. It was an act that had seemed so very pointless at the time, yet he had silently waited for years for it to acquire meaning.

Vimal was the eldest of five children born to poor parents. His father was a marginal farmer cum farm labourer who earned just enough to feed the family from day to day. He also cultivated an acre of land under a sharecropping arrangement. He had a small patch of homestead land where he and his wife grew vegetables, primarily for their own consumption. Despite that, poverty was their permanent lodger: they were half-fed, poorly clothed, and constantly reminded of what they did not have—things their neighbours’ children took for granted.

As the eldest, Vimal was repeatedly told to “learn to live without,” to control desires, suppress hunger, and not compare himself with others. His mother, too, was trained in that philosophy: she wore mended saris, patched leaking pots, and battled white ants that built mounds inside their crumbling house walls. The roof leaked in a dozen places, the bucket rope for drawing water from the community well was frayed, and everything was always “under repair.”

Scarcity had taught the children the art of adjustment. During meals, each kept a watchful eye on the others’ plates to ensure the food was divided fairly. Their mother, even without scales or measures, could portion the meal equally on five plates. Eternal vigilance, Vimal would later say, was the price of their liberty.

Pocket money was unheard of, but their parents encouraged them to visit village fairs—not to buy or steal, but to observe how traders haggled and how buyers tried to shave off a rupee. Those outings were their first lessons in economics.

By the age of ten, Vimal’s entrepreneurial instinct had awakened. One Holi, he decided to try his hand at business during the village fair. He borrowed ₹5 from a friend’s father on the condition that he’d repay ₹2 as interest the next day. After some bargaining, he brought it down to ₹1.50.

With the capital, he bought a packet of 100 balloons from the nearest market. Each balloon could sell for 10 paise—₹10 for the whole lot. Armed with a long bamboo stick rigged with three cross-pieces like an old rooftop TV antenna, he displayed his inflated balloons and headed to the fair.

He inflated the balloons by mouth, as there was no pump, and tied them in bunches of ten. Then, adopting the instincts of a natural salesman, he went from child to child. He knew that if he could make the children cry for a balloon, their parents would relent. It worked—mostly.

But he hadn’t anticipated leaks and bursts. Twelve balloons were wasted before he could sell them. By midnight, with twenty balloons unsold, his revenue from 68 balloons came to ₹6.80. After repaying ₹5 principal and ₹1.50 interest, his profit stood at 30 paise.

It was his money—his first self-earned profit! And he was free to spend it as he wished.

Thirty paise could buy him three fritters, but it was too late at night to eat without brushing. He could purchase marbles for that amount, but three were too few—at least ten were needed to play a proper match in his village.

He looked around. At one end of the fair, palanquins bearing the idols of Lord Krishna and Shri Radha stood parked in a neat row—ten pairs in all. The entire fair was dedicated to celebrating their divine love. Although it was a ceremonial gathering, a form of worship was also taking place. Vimal watched as people placed coins on a brass plate and bowed before the deities.

But he was determined not to part with his hard-earned 30 paise. Spending it on something valuable at the fair felt much wiser than offering it to the idols merely for the sake of prayer. Otherwise, he was in no mood to transition from commercial affairs to the spiritual realm without a thorough cleansing. The stingy priest would give him nothing more than a pinch of coloured powder—a reminder of Holi—not even a morsel of prasadam to eat.

Then he found a small shop selling assorted items, each for thirty paise. He examined the goods: an aluminium ear-cleaner (unnecessary—because bamboo twigs were free), bindi packets (his mother used vermilion, and he had no sisters).

Then his eyes fell on a small transparent polycarbonate trinket case, aquamarine in colour. It was made of break-resistant material, not easily fragile, and the space inside was just enough to hold two rings or a pair of earrings, not enough to store a mangalsutra—but somehow, it beckoned to him. My mother could use this, he thought, though she owned no jewellery, not even a nose pin.

It was an impulsive purchase, one that even his father mocked as pointless. But his mother defended him: “It’s his profit. He has the right to spend it as he wishes.” She treasured the little box—her eldest son’s first gift bought with his own earnings. And perhaps she wondered: If only I had earrings or a nose pin, I could keep them here.

Twelve years later…

Life had never been easy for Vimal, but he learnt every lesson the hard way. He excelled in school, clearing every board exam and securing a bank job by the age of twenty-two. One of his first acts with his salary was to buy his mother a pair of gold ear-tops. She placed them carefully in that same trinket box, bought twelve years ago.

No amount of persuasion could make her wear them immediately. ‘I will wear them on the first Thursday in the month of Margashira,’ she said, ‘when Goddess Lakshmi will visit and bless this house. She will see my trinket case and my earrings, and she will bless our family.’

And so it happened, just as she wished.

Years later, when Vimal encountered the existentialist dictum “existence precedes essence”, he smiled. Philosophers argued over whether the jewellery or the box should come first, but he knew the answer. The answer was a mix of aspiration, intelligence, planning, emotion, patience, love, and gratitude. The trinket case had not been a mistake. It had purpose built into its being. The earrings were destined to find their home in it.

If you build a nest in your backyard, a bird will come to live there one day.

We often judge our actions by the immediate results they produce, dismissing anything that seems purposeless in the moment. But life, as Vimal learnt, is not a ledger to be balanced instantly. Meaning ripens slowly, often in ways we cannot foresee.

That little trinket case—bought without reason by a ten-year-old boy—waited patiently for its purpose to arrive. Years later, it became the resting place of his mother’s first earrings, a quiet witness to the family’s journey from want to dignity.

Existentialism, Vimal realised, is not just a lofty philosophy; it is lived in such small, seemingly random acts that gather meaning over time. We build the nest—sometimes without knowing why…and life, sooner or later, brings the bird.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

18-10-2025

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[For ordering ebook of the author's newest title, Midnight Biryani and Other Stories, please check at amazon link..... here

 https://amzn.in/d/9QQee3E

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The Immunity of Children

 

The Immunity of Children

Children enjoy a curious kind of immunity. They are free to try things, if not in front of adults (for fear of being stopped), then surely in their absence. It is nothing but the raw expression of human freedom, getting ready to assert itself.

But adults, too, know how to use this immunity when faced with a caveat or taboo. Take, for instance, the case of killing cockroaches inside God’s room. For devout believers in non-violence, such an act is unthinkable, worse still if it happens in the sanctum where God’s presence is invoked. So, a compromise is struck. A child, the very incarnation of innocence, is coaxed into doing the “forbidden” act—bribed with a packet of chocolates or promised a shiny toy gun. The child gladly takes the can of pesticide, sprays it in and around the idol, and then runs off to claim the prize. The arrangement works perfectly: the adult escapes God’s censure for killing His creatures, while the child acts under the cloak of innocence and the lure of fun.

But the question remains: how long does such immunity last?

Some adults keep addressing grown men and women as beta, “my child”, even when those “children” have children of their own. My story, however, is not about such adults. It is about four teenagers—fast friends, inseparable, and bound by the motto of “sink or swim together.” They were given mythological nomenclature: Bhim, Arjun, Nakul, Sahdev. There was little story about them: their mothers conceived and gave birth to them about the same time, and no wonder, as they were mythologically named as if consulting each other.

They were all fish-eaters. Their friendship had the flavour of mischief, secrecy, and an unspoken pact of loyalty. Every evening, they roamed the village grazing field with Tipu, their dog. There they whispered about things no adult would allow them to discuss in public—questions about life, women, money, and the mysteries of adulthood.

When answers were not found, they quickly forgot and turned to what they could manage—collecting berries, wrestling, or swimming in forbidden styles no sport would approve of. Sometimes, they pooled their turns to borrow a much-circulated 40-page booklet and found a quiet spot to read aloud together before taking it home, one by one, secretly. Books sparked new questions, too—why should girls not talk directly to boys, and why should their thoughts about the boys be so misconceived?

Their minds were buzzing with riddles: How to earn enough money to buy spicy fritters at a roadside stall? How to purchase kites or bicycles? How to reach school on time even after detouring to places where no adult’s eye followed them?

One day, the four reached the embankment of a pond. Their first curiosity: how deep was it?

Bhim said, “It must be fifteen feet.”

Arjun said, “No, fourteen at most.”

Nakul said, “Well, it’s two feet max.”

Sahdev, the self-styled mathematician of the group, averaged the guesses and declared, “Hmm, it’s ten feet!”

Nakul, who estimated only two feet, was dared to wade in, for if it was indeed that shallow, he had nothing to fear. He marched in bravely and proved himself right—the water rose only waist-deep, about three feet in the middle. The others applauded his triumph as if he had fathomed the Mariana Trench.

But triumph turned quickly into conspiracy. “Don’t tell anyone,” whispered Bhim. “We can catch fish here.”

The pond was a public one. Its fish were reserved for sale to fund the village’s annual function and the open-air theatre troupe. But community decisions mattered little to four adventure-hungry boys. They planned a secret fishing expedition the following Sunday.

The bigger problem: where to cook the fish? Parents would never allow it for fear of being ostracised. After some deliberation, they struck upon the temporary hut of a beggar who had squatted at the edge of the grazing field. The man was sometimes away, but luckily, that evening he was present. The cabal of four gathered from the beggar that he would be present in his hut on the following Sunday. That’s all, the beggar was not to be made privy to the details of the forthcoming adventure!

On Sunday, just after sunset, the boys crept into the pond. Fortune favoured them—a large carp, easily more than a kilo, slipped under Arjun’s feet almost at once. Catching it was easier than plucking a guava from a low branch!

They rushed to the beggar, who roasted the carp in a fire. He coaxed them for the source of the fish, but the boys held their silence. Suspicion flickered in his eyes, but he said nothing. When the fish was ready, the boys devoured it with nothing more than salt. No spices, no oil—yet they declared it the best fish of their lives. They left only the fish head for the beggar. He declined their offer to share, saying he would first pray to God and eat later.

But Sahdev grew uneasy. Why hadn’t the beggar eaten with them? Why had he pressed so hard to know the source? Was he planning to betray them?

The suspicion proved true. The beggar went to the head of the village elders and complained. The Head might have ignored it, but with other dignitaries present on his veranda, the matter took wings. The beggar was promised three kilos of rice if he could identify the culprits.

The next day, during school recess, the beggar pointed out the four boys from afar. The deal was sealed.

A village meeting was convened. The boys admitted their act, though Arjun argued cheekily:

“I caught the fish because it came under my feet. What else was I to do?”

The elders were not amused. The case was proven. Now came the question of punishment.

One elder rose to announce the penalty but was interrupted by the village head, a man of unusual sagacity. He said:

“Can we blame a witch if we leave our baby unguarded? The pond was shallow because we failed to dig it properly. Let each household now spend ten days’ labour to deepen it.”

The gathering nodded.

He continued:

“A child is always innocent. Don’t we ask a child to cut a wax gourd because it is considered a symbolic sacrificial animal, forbidden for women to give it the first cut? The child does it without sin, because innocence shields him. Similarly, if these four ‘innocent’ children have caught the fish, they cannot be punished. When you deploy them for your work, you treat them as innocent, but when they do something out of their childlike curiosity, you merrily forget their innocence!”

Instead, he proposed: “Tomorrow, let us all catch whatever fish remain in the pond. Each house will contribute two kilos of rice. This time the feast will be dedicated to the children of the village—none else.”

No one opposed.

And so it was. The next evening, the village celebrated with fish curry, fish fry, and nothing but fish. The laughter of children echoed louder than the temple bells, and the four little miscreants found themselves heroes instead of culprits.

The immunity of childhood had saved them once again.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

10-10-2025

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[My latest story book in English, "Midnight Biryani and Other Stories", is available on Amazon. Search by author name "ananta narayan nanda"]

Full Circle

 

Full Circle

When we were children—then teenagers—we were taught at school to nurture a scientific temper. At home, however, the atmosphere was thick with rituals, traditions, and superstitions. For many of us, this contradiction was bewildering. Yet, following the principle of least resistance, most simply accepted what was told at home and let it shape their youth. Some of them, now in my age group, spend their days on social media claiming that in ancient India we had intercontinental ballistic missiles, aeroplanes, spacecraft, artificial intelligence, genetic engineering, bionic limbs, and quantum computing—the list never ends.

I was the odd one out. I had this troublesome habit of shooting questions—a trait hardly considered the mark of a “good boy.” Why should two brooms kept together cause quarrels in the family? Why must the eldest son not face south while eating? Why should handing over chillies by hand spoil relationships? Why does wearing a banian inside out mean new clothes are on the way? And why, if two people happen to say the exact words together, must it mean a guest is about to arrive? Why, why…and why?

There were rules even for defecation. With no bathrooms, everyone went to the fields. But one had to wear cloth not made of cotton, supposedly to preserve its sanctity. Children were often told to go naked, lest their clothes lose sanctity.

Of course, the overall situation was still better than in olden times described in books. We read Fakir Mohan Senapati’s short story Revati, in which he mocked the superstition that if a girl studied, her learning would kill her parents—that was the depth of blind belief. Go back further, and you find the horror of sati. We no longer burn widows, but shrines to sati are still worshipped. Rationalists object, calling it a glorification of old atrocities.

Sometimes I dared to ask why one must worship God. Such “blasphemy” earned me stern rebukes. Yet every so often, a wise elder would pause to hear the tremor in my voice. He sensed that beneath my defiance lay a child’s hunger for recognition and love, and in their absence I sounded rebellious. With gentle patience, he would say, “Worship gives emotional strength to face life’s uncertainties.” His words, spoken with affection, disarmed me. I tried temples and prayers, though they yielded little. Thus began my lifelong ambivalence—today a believer, tomorrow a doubter. In pleasing neither myself nor others, I remained like one forever perched upon a fence: a soul suspended, uncertain.

The memory of one incident from those days still lingers in my mind.

Baimundi, a friend of mine—not known for his studies or wit—once claimed that at night he heard the cows in his house talking among themselves in human language. It was Odia, the only tongue he knew.

Before narrating further, I need to explain where our talking cows lived. Like the houses of other devout families, the plan of my friend’s house followed the scriptures. The cows were not in a separate shed but in the very first room of their mud-walled home. Anyone entering had to pass through this cow-room before reaching the family quarters. This was deliberate, rooted in their sense of righteous living and vastu-like beliefs. Stepping in or out meant treading on ground sanctified by cow dung and soaked with cow urine. The smell filled the house. Over time, the family grew accustomed to it—perhaps even grew fond of it.

Mosquitoes were plenty. The same mosquitoes bit both cows and humans. The family burned husk and straw to drive them away with smoke. In that smoky, pungent space lived about a dozen cows, most yielding only a cup or two of milk—“tea-cup cows,” as the family joked. This was long before the hybrid breeds of the White Revolution, the ones that required a well-ventilated, if not air-conditioned, home to thrive. Alongside the cows, the family consisted of eight children, three adults, and two elders. The cowshed was as populous as the family itself.

When Baimundi said he heard the cows’ conversations, the family was curious, then worried. Curious—because everyone “knew” cows spoke like humans at night, but no one had ever actually heard them. Worried—because sceptics like me might dismiss it as madness. Baimundi already had a reputation for odd dreams. Once, he dreamt of the thief who had stolen a trinket at a wedding—only to discover it was a respectable woman. When the stolen object was recovered following his clues, he earned no credit. Instead, people suspected he was under the influence of evil spirits and recommended calling for witch doctors.

Even then, some of us felt that a real doctor, trained in the mind and its workings, should be consulted. A witch-doctor’s “treatment” would have been brutal—beating him with brooms made of brambles, making him drink foul water from an abandoned well, even swallowing cat dung so the “spirit” would leave his body. After his claim about the cows, when we suggested a psychiatrist, the very mention of the word terrified the family. It would be a blot on their name. So the boy went untreated.

Although Baimundi sometimes dreamt startling things, he struggled with his studies and failed matriculation. After that, he remained at home as an unpaid servant—the butt of endless jokes. He was given food, but only after the ‘normal’ children had eaten; shelter, but only on a sagging charpai left out on the veranda, its ropes frayed so the middle nearly touched the ground; clothes, but only the discarded ones; and affection, but only in scraps. In the end, neglect outweighed whatever little love he received.

I still remember questioning him for details, despite the elders’ warning that anyone who heard the cows speak was destined for misfortune—even premature death. According to Baimundi, the cows discussed their grazing, including where the grass was tastiest and how to stay together for safety. One detail stood out.

A cow tethered in a cramped corner, near stacked firewood and dried cow-dung cakes, complained she had been denied water. The woman of the house had skipped her turn. The cow was about to curse her, but an elder cow intervened, reminding her that the woman was overworked and had made a mistake only.

He told this only to two people—me and the very woman who had forgotten. Startled, she admitted her lapse and promised to be more careful. Whether she kept that promise, I never knew. But her instant remorse was proof enough for me that the “dimwit” boy spoke the truth.

Still, I remained on the fence. It was convenient to disbelieve, since the family laughed it off. Later, when I read about Jagadish Chandra Bose showing that plants communicate, I never asked: if trees can, why not cows? When I saw a talking bird, I didn’t connect it to that childhood scene.

Fifty years have passed since “the night the cows talked.” The world has transformed. Today, we are often told that reality itself depends on how we observe it—we see what we expect to see, not always what actually exists. Science, too, whispers the same mystery. In the double-slit experiment, light sometimes behaves like a wave, sometimes like a particle—depending only on whether it is watched. Much like the proverb, a watched pot never boils; our very act of looking seems to change what unfolds.

When I watched a film about twins separated at birth—where one twin felt the other’s pain across a distance—I assumed it was only a dramatic way of endorsing the cultural belief in such a bond. Later, I discovered that quantum theory has its own riddle. Two entangled particles, even when separated by light-years, mirror each other instantly. It isn’t quite like twins feeling each other’s pain, yet the echo between folklore and physics is hard to miss.

Throughout history, the easiest way to silence a different observation has been to call the observer a fool. Baimundi could be one example—who can deny that?

Confused?

So am I.

From a boy on the fence to an old man swayed by different versions of reality—each convincing and confusing at once—I have come full circle. Science dazzles me with its tangled explanations, while religion bewilders me with even greater ease.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

04-10-2025

Balasore

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