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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