Her Epiphany

Her Epiphany

It was 11 a.m. as Malovika reached Havelock. Coming out of the jetty, she looked around for transport to get to Wandoor Beach Resort. An auto-rickshaw waiting for passengers agreed to take her to her resort. She was eager to meet Rajan, the sexagenarian three-ton bull Asian elephant with a reputation for swimming in the sea. He was the mascot of conservation, the poster child of adventure tourism! The celebrity even acted in the 2006 Hollywood movie ‘The Fall!’

Theoretically speaking, an elephant should have no issues with swimming. Given the presence of nephrostomes in elephants, a zoologist would conclude that the species shares ancestry with fish and frogs. So, Rajan had swimming skills latent in his genes. Besides, folklore says elephants used to swim between India and Sri Lanka in the olden days. So, the task of keeping the tradition alive, as it were, fell to Rajan!  

In the 1970s, when exploitation of the forests in the Andamans was at its height to supply Andaman padauk (Pterocarpus dalbergioides) to the mainland, Rajan was brought there for logging operations. With training that made him undergo transformational drills to overcome ocean fright, he excelled in swimming. Initially, the drudgery was unremitting; even then, Rajan could endure the grind thanks to the encouragement of his girlfriend. He would swim across the creeks from one island to another, sometimes covering 3 kilometres. As he swam with his friends, the dinghies with the workers aboard would row alongside them. The taskmasters would bark at him while his friends prodded him with an ankush mercilessly—an ankush, the elephant prod.

By the 1980s, public opinion had already built up, demanding humane treatment of elephants in the archipelago. The Supreme Court of India prohibited logging in the Andaman Islands in 2002. As a result, authorities translocated some of the animals engaged in the activity to become wild beasts in the fragmented forests of the mainland. They found meagre fodder in their new habitats, raided the agricultural field, and perished. More lamentably, those who went to the temples of South India had to endure the rigmarole of further training and adaptation. On being banished from the islands’ quiet setting and harassed by the irritating temple bells, sometimes such beasts went crazy and trampled devotees during religious parades. However, in Rajan’s case, the relocation was delayed. That amounted to some consolation for the poor beast, living alone after losing his girlfriend to a snakebite. In 2008, when his owner was negotiating the beast’s sale to a Kerala temple, Wandoor Resort stepped in to keep him on the island. The resort became his new abode. It offered snorkelling enthusiasts the privilege to dive with him for a fee. Now, the beast led a comfortable retired life on the island.

That was all the travel literature said about the life history of the unique beast, the protagonist of the island’s fascinating fairy tale!

‘Fancy diving with Rajan, eh?’ the auto driver enquired of Malovika.

The chap seemed too nosy. Malovika replied, ‘Yeah, I’m game for it.’ She would indeed prefer being apprised of Rajan’s exploits. So, she picked up the thread and asked, ‘Have you seen Rajan?’ The fellow replied affirmatively, asserting that Rajan belonged to the island, not just the resort.

What a profound statement! Malovika was reminded of an ancient adage: Elephants belong to the jungle and the jungle to all. So, who owns what? Ownership implies protection—not exploitation! Thus, the adage alludes to the absurdity of owning an animal as big as an elephant. Unconsciously, though, the auto driver underlined the cardinal tenet of wildlife conservation!

She reached her resort, checked in, and approached the manager for snorkelling with Rajan.

A notice at the reception announced that Rajan had reached his weekly snorkelling quota and was therefore unavailable for the activity. Hence, the manager was puzzled to find someone casually asking for it, as if demanding a pack of cigarettes from the tobacconist. However, he returned to his professional mien in a split second only to say ‘no.’ Their policy was not to ask Rajan to swim more than once a week, but Malovika was too eager to take no for an answer. She revealed she was a top-notch elephant enthusiast in India. Therefore, she would not mind paying the premium the resort might like to charge her for the privilege.

‘Madam, a well-wisher of elephants like you would not advise us to turn Rajan into a circus animal, would you?’ The manager’s response was polite yet sterner than a malicious wisecrack.

Unhappy and repentant, Malovika returned to her cottage. It was pure arrogance on her part to present her credentials as India’s top-notch elephant enthusiast. Moreover, it was a brazen assertion of her purchasing power to offer a premium for an out-of-turn snorkelling slot. So, she would do better to tarry on the island until her turn. Accordingly, she doubled back to the manager to take another chance.

‘I’ve decided, manager. I’ll wait here until my turn. Could you book a slot for me in advance?’

The manager responded politely but not favourably: ‘Sorry, ma’am. It’s booked for the coming weeks as well. You’ll need to wait until the third week of March.’ This arrangement meant Malovika would stay there for nearly a month without engagement. She nodded in agreement.

Then the manager asked her to pay for four people and said it was their policy not to book for an individual, only for groups of four at a time. The total cost, including the rent for her extended stay, was a whopping amount. Nevertheless, she agreed to pay for certainty’s sake.

Malovika returned to her cottage, sat on an easy chair, and began flipping through her favourite picture book, Babar the Elephant. Years ago, she had bought all seven parts of Brunhoff’s illustrated Babar series from Sylvia Whitman’s Shakespeare Bookstore in Paris. She had also stayed a night in the store and written a page of her autobiography. Even to this day, she treasures the memory. It was a wonderful feeling to stay at Whitman’s, where, once upon a time, literary luminaries like Ernest Hemingway and Ezra Pound used to frequent to nurture their muse.

The next day at high noon, Rajan leisurely trundled into the resort with his mahout, the caretaker, following him in tandem.

‘Wow, Rajan!’ Malovika was ecstatic, feeling as if her breath might never return! The tusker looked so youthful! So very grand! A self-possessed philosopher, he knew his life’s purpose—to make the world more beautiful with his presence. His inimitable elegance resembled a magnolia, diffusing its lemony fragrance across the far corners of the landscape. Aha! It was like the luminous Milky Way bedecking the dark firmament. ‘Look! Oh, my dear, how beautifully you move! You’re so prodigious, graceful, wise, and generous!’ she exclaimed in awe.

And she became a poet right away, a songster composing and reciting a poem on the fly:  The blue of the sky/ Before merging into the earthly grey/ Here you stand, pausing for a split second/ You make me see what heaven’s like/ You, the divine beast, once look at me/ How many goosebumps have risen here/ And how weightless my body has become/ Look yonder, the charming little flower/ How it sways in a rhythm sublime / You’re my dream, a dream come true/ Rajan, you the dream of millions/ O Rajan, O Rajan….

Despite her cultivated image as a no-nonsense elephantologist, she was swept away by the first flush of young love. As a tidal wave of excitement swept through her, she felt like a starstruck teenager besotted with the he-man of the silver screen. Her feelings were not just intense; they were a kaleidoscope of jubilation and integration, surpassing anything she had ever experienced during her crush on Aarohan.

Boldly stepping in front of Rajan, she chided, ‘Oh dear, don’t you have a moment for your devoted admirer? Your manager stated it.’

Then she went a step closer to Rajan and resumed in a sing-song tone. ‘O Rajan, I dream of swimming in the ocean with you. You’re generous, majestic, wise, courageous, and noble. As the all-knowing one, you must sense what’s in my heart. Please, dear, shall we take a swim?’

The mahout went speechless, wondering, ‘God! The drunk woman has come so recklessly close to a thirsty elephant! What’s going to happen?’

Rajan inched closer to Malovika and stopped only a few feet away. ‘Dear me! How dangerously close she is now! Will the tusker trample her under his feet?’ The mahout shook in fear.

‘Ah, Rajan. You’re so compassionate, ever so indulgent. You know what your admirer needs. You’d hate to see me return from your doorstep,’ Malovika said, raising her hand as she inched closer.

The gentle giant also raised his trunk by about thirty degrees. Then, his prehensile proboscis springing into action, he sniffed the air to gauge the source of the threat. Perhaps he was undecided about punishing Malovika for venturing into his personal space.

Rajan gently brushed Malovika’s shoulder with the tip of his trunk, leaving the mahout thoroughly bewildered. Was it a friendly greeting? The mahout’s professional acumen went numb. A copious amount of Rajan’s drool dripped down Malovika’s shoulder, soaking her décolletage as if she had just emerged from a refreshing pool. The sensation was cold and anaesthetising. Soon, she found herself drenched in saliva, sweat, and secretions. Rajan playfully explored her upper contours with his snout, showing a human touch. It was unprecedented and impish, but then, was it intentional? Was it the beginning of something more intimate?

Already immobilised and his mouth agape, the poor mahout gave a barely audible whimper.

Malovika closed her eyes as waves of electricity surged through the centre of her body. Her skin rippled, sending her into a flurry of goosebumps; her body convulsed, tingling every sensitive spot. They were a series of insanely sharp sensations. Tears streamed down her cheeks to convey no emotions. Slowly, she felt she had lost control of her body while an unfathomable impulse swept over her. Then, at last, she slumped there as the slow waves of calming pleasure lapped her, setting in a phase of fading afterglow.

Finding his admirer flat on the ground, Rajan lumbered ahead.

Malovika continued to lie on her back, calm and motionless, feeling the coolness of her tears evaporating on her cheeks. She knew she had experienced a purely out-of-this-world sensation. It was a voyage to the land of death without surrendering her right to live. If death were such fun, she would like to die repeatedly. Aha! It was an orgasm, then! Long ago, when she was a student, clever friends would try to impart amorous insights to her condescendingly. She would reject them as idiotic, a mere fantasy of imaginative fools. What of now? It was her moment of sudden insight; it would lay bare all those hidden meanings of life which could not be expressed but are lived silently in this life only!

Indeed, she realised what she had always been overlooking.

The mahout breathed a sigh of relief. Rajan did not pull any funny antics, which saved his job. However, when he reported it to the manager, the latter rushed to the scene of that quiet encounter. Malovika had already left the spot and gone to her cottage by then. Sitting on an easy chair with her eyes closed, she was busy reflecting on what had just blown her over. She opened her eyes as the manager arrived.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ the manager said. This was not so much to apologise for Rajan’s so-called excesses as it was to introduce the operative part of his sentence.

‘But why? Is it because of Rajan?’ Malovika queried.

‘Yep. Rajan is not favourably disposed towards you. I think you’d better cancel your plan to snorkel with him. We have no issue with returning your amount,’ said the manager.

‘As you like,’ replied Malovika weakly. She was all for prolonging the afterglow.

‘May I recommend something more, ma’am? The catamaran leaves Havelock at 6 a.m. We’ll buy you a ticket if you desire,’ said the manager unctuously.

Malovika figured out what was playing in the manager’s mind. He wanted to send her packing a.s.a.p.

She was in no mood to linger on the island after it became clear where she belonged and what she needed. For once, the abnegating spinster could not be impervious to her physical stimuli.

Happily, the manager rushed to carry out what he considered best for the resort's interests.        

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

13/12/2025

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The Eligible Bachelor

 

The Eligible Bachelor

Long, long ago, there lived a man named Mulia in our village—fifty-one years old, dull-witted by reputation, but convinced he was still an eligible bachelor.

According to him, a man never becomes “too old” to marry. Why? Because—he reasoned—as long as a man can fetch fuelwood from the jungle, draw water from the well, pick vegetables from the kitchen garden, scrub floors during festive cleanings, or wash clothes beaten on a stone after boiling them with soda, he remains perfectly fit for marriage.

Mulia insisted he could do all these things; every woman, he believed, would love such a helpful husband. However, the rest of the village disagreed.

As a child, Mulia had no control over his bowels until he was nine.

Had his parents been medically aware, he might have been diagnosed with autism. However, both parents died young under mysterious circumstances, later described as a railway accident. The information arrived so late—and from such unverified sources—that by then all compensation files had already been closed at every level of the railway department.

Thus, Mulia was brought up by his default guardian, Uncle Vibhuti, who ensured that Mulia “outgrew” the suspicion of any congenital condition simply by surviving it.

He grew enough to be sent to school. There, he spent four years learning forty-nine alphabets and still could not remember them.

There was, however, a faint glimmer of hope. In arithmetic, he quickly learnt the numbers 1 to 10. He even grasped the magical rule that placing a zero after a number makes it ten times bigger. But he learnt nothing beyond that. Oh yes—thanks to this trick, he could form numbers like 20, 30, 40, and so on, though he often jumbled them midway.

He did manage to memorise one poem—or more accurately, one-quarter of one—from his primer. The lines stayed with him for decades, though in a scrambled, lottery-like sequence:

It is already morning, boys,

A time to sing rhyme, boys,

The garden smells sweet, and the breeze is blowing,

Get ready for your lessons without wasting time.

That quatrain served him variously—as a proverb, a nursery rhyme, a prayer, and even as an expression of happiness while bathing. Thus, it was enough to disprove the village rumour that “Mulia never learnt poetry.”

After six years of relentless effort, his private tutor finally gave up. Mulia somehow persisted in attending the local school but failed the primary examination in just two years. Thus ended his tryst with formal education.

At twelve, Mulia entered the practical world of agriculture.

He could plough—or at least stand behind a pair of bullocks shouting “Hyeee!” and let them do the hard work. Occasionally, he drifted into philosophical reflections on the purpose of human life or the truth behind birth and death—proof enough that he was a profound existential thinker. Whenever this happened, the ploughshare slipped.

On one such philosophical flight, the ploughshare cut a bullock’s hoof so severely that the animal remained unfit for cultivation for a month.

His master rewarded Mulia with twenty-one slaps, enough to make him unfit for work for a fortnight. He even lost the day’s wage.

Thus began his reputation as a village butcher—kasai. Everyone started saying, “Don't let him hold the plough—he’s an assailant, a butcher!”

But Mulia was not discouraged. Agriculture offered hundreds of jobs; surely one would suit him.

His next assignment was to weed paddy fields. The rule was simple: 1- Black-rooted plants meant real paddy—keep; 2- White-rooted plants meant wild paddy—uproot and push it into mud.

Unfortunately, Mulia understood the exact opposite.

By midday, the field shimmered white with wild paddy as Mulia uprooted every precious paddy plant along with the weeds and buried them in the mud. This marked the end of his career as a weeder in the paddy fields. From then on, he was known as “the lover of wild paddy.”

During the reaping season, Mulia was once again employed—perhaps out of pity, probably due to labour shortages, or simply because he never objected to being paid less than the lowest wage.

Working with great fervour, he sliced his own hand with a freshly sharpened sickle before lunchtime. Like an ambidextrous hero, he switched to his left hand. Within an hour, that, too, began to bleed.

By year-end, Mulia was injured, unemployed, and the butt of jokes for children half his age. Before long, he had earned enough nicknames to become a minor celebrity—not just in his own village but across the entire neighbourhood. Naturally, the following year, no one hired him.

Mulia had no land of his own. His paternal property had long been merged into Uncle Vibhuti’s holdings. So he began catching fish from puddles, half-flooded fields, and narrow monsoon channels. Whatever he managed to catch, he bartered for a meal—something to supplement the little food he received at Uncle Vibhuti’s house.

His uncle fed him in exchange for labour—rarely a fair deal, but at least Mulia didn’t starve. Fishing was one task he could manage without harming his targets too badly.

He also tried plucking berries, fetching water, collecting honey (after getting stung), gathering firewood, and doing dozens of other odd village jobs. In the end, failure followed him like a shadow.

Yet Mulia stayed on. He could have gone to town and taken up a job as a busboy in a hotel, scrubbing plates for strangers. But he could not abandon the soil that had mocked him, fed him, and shaped him. For all its ridicule, the village was still the only place where his heart felt at home.

He never visited a temple seeking change. Once, when he was a child, a story had filled him with hope—a tale of how the deity of a nearby temple had miraculously helped a man pass an exam. Believing that God listened to the helpless, he too went to pray.

He arrived just as the prasad was being handed out and waited shyly for his turn. But the priest looked past him, gave sweets to everyone else, and not a single granule to him. Mulia walked back slowly, his small hands empty, his heart even emptier, the purpose of his visit forgotten in the ache of being overlooked.

In his young mind, one explanation took root—that he was denied the sweet because he was an orphan. And that belief hardened with time. If God’s sweet was not for him, surely God’s temple was not for him either. Thus, Mulia grew up thinking he had no place before the deity, no right to stand where others stood.

One sympathetic neighbour, Dayal, a freelance writer of court documents, understood why Mulia had no land left: Uncle Vibhuti had conveniently “managed” it all in the name of protection.

Dayal pressured Vibhuti to transfer Mulia’s rightful share—two acres. Vibhuti agreed, with one condition: “If Mulia gets married, an intelligent wife will handle his foolishness.”

But no girl was willing to marry someone widely regarded as the embodiment of failure. So Vibhuti proposed a brilliant solution: “We’ll ‘buy’ a girl from West Bengal for five thousand rupees and arrange the marriage. The money can come from selling Mulia’s land.”

Dayal found the plan reasonable—after all, the sale proceeds of Mulia’s land would go towards funding his marriage. Eighty per cent of Mulia’s land was sold to Vibhuti. Trusting both uncles—one blood, one neighbour—Mulia signed happily, unaware they had teamed up against him.

It seemed as if Vibhuti Kaka had been hatching this plan for a long time—he just needed the right opportunity and a partner to put it into action. Now he had found that partner in Dayal.

A girl was “procured” through the interstate bride trafficking network of that era. Such girls, often shown as orphans or unable to afford dowries, were offered to desperate grooms across state borders. Understandably, such “procured” brides were assured that their weddings were contrived to be temporary ones!

When the wedding finally took place, not a single member of the bride’s family was present. Vibhuti himself sat as her guardian on the marriage altar. The ceremony was short and subdued. The customary feast was postponed by fifteen days for reasons unknown.

As for Mulia, he didn’t even know his bride’s name. But he was patient: on the fourth night, when the actual ritual union was to occur, he would surely find out.

Meanwhile, he obeyed every instruction of the priest—no brushing teeth with twigs (only mango leaves permitted), no shaving (inauspicious during the wedding cycle), no stepping outside (ghosts and witches might enter one’s body), and so forth. Mulia followed everything, letter by letter.

On the third day, whispers began circulating early in the morning. By midday, it was confirmed: the bride from Bengal was missing.

The entire village searched. The backyard pond was inspected—it was too shallow for even a goat to drown. The cremation ground was checked, for ghosts were notorious for luring newlyweds merely for their devilish pleasure.

But the bride was nowhere to be seen.

By evening, it was publicly accepted that she had returned to West Bengal. Vibhuti and Dayal shed theatrical tears. To avoid suspicion, Dayal set off on his bicycle to the bride’s supposed village.

He returned at 10 p.m., claiming: “The entire family has gone on pilgrimage, including the bride. Their neighbours said it was a vow after her marriage.”

Villagers doubted the story was fabricated. The village he mentioned was too far for a bicycle trip, investigation, and return within a few hours.

But by then, most of Mulia’s land had already passed to Vibhuti—his de facto possession now de jure ownership. Mulia was left with just a single fallow, waterlogged patch that no one wanted.

Vibhuti, displaying saintly generosity, took Mulia back into his household—feeding him in exchange for labour. His son, Shyam Sundar, later continued the arrangement his father had established, giving shelter to Mulia, his elder cousin. Mulia continued to do strenuous jobs his way—clumsily but faithfully.

Meanwhile, Mulia nurtured a cherished dream: he would marry again.

He refused to accept that he was too old or too inept. After all, he still believed he was an eligible bachelor—strong enough to fetch water, fuelwood, vegetables, and perhaps someday, even a wife. Money was no problem—there were takers, willing to buy his waterlogged fallow land for five thousand rupees.

But alas, no one remained to assist him in his marriage negotiations. Both Uncle Vibhuti and Uncle Dayal had passed away, and the interstate bride-trafficking network had long since been dismantled.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Balasore, 5/12/2025

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घर का घोड़ा, खेत की मूली

 

घर का घोड़ा, खेत की मूली

वर्षों पहले हमारे गाँव में मूलिया नाम का एक आदमी रहता था। उम्र उसकी इक्यावन की थी, दिमाग़ से कुछ सुस्त माना जाता था, पर उसका अटूट विश्वास था कि वह अब भी एक योग्य कुँवारा है।

उसका तर्क बड़ा सरल था—मर्द कभी भी शादी के लिए “हद से ज़्यादा बूढ़ा” नहीं होता। क्यों? क्योंकि, उसके मुताबिक़, जब तक आदमी जंगल से जलावन की लकड़ी ला सकता है, कुएँ से पानी खींच सकता है, घर-बगिया से सब्ज़ियाँ तोड़ सकता है, त्योहारों में विशेष सफाई हेतु फर्श रगड़ सकता है, या सोडा मिले गरम पानी में उबाले गए कपड़ों को पत्थर पर पटक-पटक कर धो सकता है—यानी जब तक वह हर घरेलू काम फुर्ती से कर पा रहा है—तब तक वह विवाह के लिए बिल्कुल उपयुक्त है।

मूलिया का दावा था कि वह यह सब बख़ूबी कर सकता है; उसकी नज़र में तो कोई भी स्त्री ऐसे मददगार पति को पाकर ख़ुद को भाग्यशाली मानेगी।

लेकिन गाँव वाले इस तर्क से ज़रा भी सहमत नहीं थे।

बचपन में मूलिया दस साल की उम्र तक अपने मल-मूत्र पर क़ाबू नहीं रख पाता था। अगर उसके माता-पिता इलाज-इल्म की ज़रा-सी भी समझ रखते, तो शायद उसका ऑटिज़्म जैसी किसी अवस्था का समय रहते निदान हो जाता।

पर दोनों माता-पिता बहुत कम उम्र में ही चल बसे—ऐसी संदिग्ध परिस्थितियों में, जिन्हें बाद में रेल दुर्घटना बताया गया। यह जानकारी भी इतनी देर से और इतने अविश्वसनीय स्रोतों से पहुँची कि तब तक रेलवे विभाग की सभी मुआवज़े वाली फ़ाइलें बंद हो चुकी थीं।

इस तरह मूलिया का पालन-पोषण उसके “नज़दीकी अभिभावक” विभूति काका ने किया—जिन्हें इस बात में ही संतोष मिलता था कि मूलिया ज़िंदा है, अर्थात्, उनकी नज़र में, अगर कोई जन्मजात बीमारी रही भी हो, तो वह तो अब अपने-आप ठीक हो चुकी होगी।

जैसे-तैसे जब उसकी स्कूल जाने की उम्र हुई, तो उसे स्कूल भेजा गया। वहाँ उसने चार साल तक वर्णमाला रटी, पर उसे कभी याद नहीं रख पाया।

फिर भी एक छोटी-सी उम्मीद की किरण थी। गणित में उसने एक से दस तक की गिनती जल्दी सीख ली। यह जादुई नियम भी समझ लिया कि किसी संख्या के आगे शून्य लगाने से वह दस गुना बड़ी हो जाती है। लेकिन वह इससे आगे कभी नहीं बढ़ पाया।

हाँ—इसी तरकीब से वह बीस, तीस, चालीस जैसे अंक जोड़-तोड़कर बोल लिया करता था, पर अक्सर बीच में गड़बड़ा जाता।

उसने एक कविता भी याद कर ली थी—या यूँ कहें, कविता का सिर्फ़ चौथा हिस्सा—जो उसने अपनी वर्णमाला की किताब में पढ़ा था।

वे पंक्तियाँ दशकों तक उसके साथ रहीं—बेतरतीब, लॉटरी के नंबरों की तरह उलट-पलट:

हो गई भोर, अरे लड़कों,

गाओ मिलकर छंद, अरे लड़कों,

बाग़ में महके फूल, हवा मंद-मंद आई,

अब किताबें खोलो—ना क्षण भर भी देर लगाई।

यह चौपाई कभी कहावत बन जाती, कभी कविता, कभी उसकी प्रार्थना बन जाती, और कभी नहाते समय खुशी का इज़हार। और यही उसकी ओर से यह साबित करने के लिए काफी था कि—“मूलिया कविता नहीं सीख पाया”—यह गाँव की अफ़वाह पूरी तरह बेबुनियाद थी।

छह साल के अथक प्रयासों के बाद उसका निजी गुरु यानी ट्यूशन शिक्षक हार मान गया। फिर भी मूलिया किसी तरह गाँव के स्कूल जाता रहा, पर दो ही साल में प्राथमिक परीक्षा में फेल हो गया। यहीं समाप्त हुई उसकी औपचारिक शिक्षा की दास्तान।

औपचारिक पढ़ाई के बाद, बारह साल की उम्र में मूलिया ने खेती-बाड़ी की दुनिया में क़दम रखा।

वह हल चला सकता था—या कहें, बैलों के पीछे खड़े होकर “हईई!” चिल्ला सकता था, और बैल अपना काम ख़ुद कर लेते थे। कभी-कभी वह जीवन के अर्थ या जन्म-मृत्यु के रहस्यों पर दार्शनिक चिंतन में डूब जाता और इसे अपनी ‘गहरी सोच’ का प्रमाण मानता, हालाँकि इस सोच का पता किसी और को कभी नहीं चलने देता था।

लेकिन जैसे ही उसका मन उथल-पुथल विचारों में उलझता, हल का फाल तिरछा हो जाता। एक बार ऐसी ही ‘दार्शनिक उड़ान’ में, फाल बैल के खुर में इतनी बुरी तरह धँस गया कि बेचारा जानवर पूरे एक महीने तक काम के लायक़ नहीं रहा।

मालिक ने उसे एक-आध नहीं, पूरे इक्कीस थप्पड़ रसीद किए—इतने कि मूलिया भी पखवाड़े भर काम के क़ाबिल न रहा। दिन की मज़दूरी तो गई ही।

यहीं से उसकी पहचान बनने लगी—गाँव का कसाई। हर कोई कहने लगा, “इसे हल मत पकड़ाना—कसाई है, कसाई!”

लेकिन मूलिया हतोत्साहित नहीं हुआ। खेती में सैकड़ों तरह के काम थे—ज़रूर कहीं न कहीं कोई काम उसके लिए भी होगा।

अगला काम मिला—धान के खेत की निराई का।

नियम बिल्कुल साफ़ था: (1) काली जड़ वाले पौधे—असली धान—उन्हें रहने दो। (2) सफ़ेद जड़ वाले पौधे—जंगली धान—उन्हें उखाड़कर कीचड़ में दबा दो।

स्वाभाविक ही था—मूलिया ने सब उलटा समझ लिया।

दोपहर तक पूरा खेत सफ़ेद जड़ों वाले जंगली धान से चमक रहा था, और असली धान की पौधे खरपतवार सहित कीचड़ में दफ़्न पड़े थे।

इसी के साथ उसकी ‘निराई विशेषज्ञ’ वाली नौकरी का अंत हो गया। और उसी दिन से उसका नाम पड़ गया—“जंगली धान का प्रेमी”।Top of FormBottom of Form

कटाई के मौसम में उसे फिर बुला लिया गया—शायद दया से, शायद मज़दूरों की कमी के कारण, या शायद इसलिए कि मूलिया सबसे कम मज़दूरी पर भी कभी शिकायत नहीं करता था।

उत्साह में काम करते-करते उसने तेज़ हँसिए से अपना ही हाथ काट लिया। और फिर मानो कोई सव्यसाची शूरवीर हो, दुस्साहस दिखाते हुए बाएँ हाथ से काटने लगा—पर एक घंटे के भीतर वह हाथ भी लहूलुहान हो गया।

इस तरह साल के अंत तक मूलिया—घायल, बेरोज़गार, और अपनी आधी उम्र के बच्चों के लिए भी हँसी का पात्र बन चुका था। कुछ ही दिनों में उसने इतने उपनाम कमा लिए कि वह छोटी-मोटी ‘स्थानीय हस्ती’ बन गया—सिर्फ़ अपने गाँव में नहीं, पूरे इलाक़े में।

स्वाभाविक ही था—अगले साल किसी ने उसे काम पर नहीं रखा।

मूलिया के पास अपनी कोई ज़मीन नहीं थी; उसकी पैतृक ज़मीन कब की विभूति काका की मिल्कियत में विलीन हो चुकी थी।

तब उसने बरसात के मौसम में कीचड़, गड्ढों और बहते पानी की छोटी-छोटी नालियों से मछली पकड़ना शुरू किया। जो भी मिलता, उसे किसी को देकर बदले में खाना ले लेता।

काका उसे मज़दूरी के बदले खाना देते थे; यह अन्यायपूर्ण सौदा था—पर भूख से तो बचा रहता।

मछली पकड़ना, कम-से-कम, एक ऐसा काम था जिसमें वह दूसरों को कम नुकसान पहुँचाता था—और मछलियों पर भी कम विपत्ति आती थी। इसके अलावा वह जंगल से लकड़ी लाता, जामुन बटोरता, कुएँ से पानी खींचता, और मधुमक्खियों के डंक खाकर शहद निकालता—पर हर काम में कहीं न कहीं, किसी न किसी मोड़ पर, असफलता उसका पीछा कर ही लेती।

फिर भी मूलिया गाँव में ही जमा रहा। वह शहर जाकर होटल में प्लेटें माँजने का काम कर सकता था, पर उसने उस मिट्टी को छोड़ना गवारा नहीं किया—वही मिट्टी जिसने उसे कभी डाँटा, कभी खिलाया, और जिसे वह अपना घर मानता था। गाँव, अपनी सारी हँसी-मजाक के बावजूद, उसका अपना संसार था—और उसी में उसका मन रमता था।

मूलिया कभी अपने भाग्य सुधारने के लिए मंदिर नहीं जाता था। बचपन में उसने किसी से सुना था कि मंदिर का देवता एक आदमी को परीक्षा पास करा देता है। वही चमत्कार की बात उसके मन में अटक गई, तो वह भी आशीर्वाद लेने पहुँच गया।

वह ठीक उसी समय पहुँचा जब पुजारी जी प्रसाद बाँट रहे थे। मूलिया भोलेपन से खड़ा रहा—दोनों हथेलियाँ आगे किए हुए—पर पुजारी ने उसे तो देखा भी नहीं। दूसरों को लड्डू मिला, उसे रत्ती भर भी नहीं। वह मायूस लौटा, और पूजा-प्रार्थना की बात तो बीच में कहीं उड़ ही गई।

उस दिन उसके बाल-मन ने यही नतीजा निकाला कि “अनाथों को तो देवता भी लड्डू नहीं देता।” और जब लड्डू ही नहीं मिलता, तो मंदिर जाने का हक़ कैसा? बस, तब से मूलिया को लगा कि वह भगवान के दरबार तक पहुँचने लायक ही नहीं।

एक हमदर्द पड़ोसी दयाल, जो अदालती काग़ज़-पत्र लिखने का काम करता था, भली-भाँति जानता था कि मूलिया की ज़मीन क्यों नहीं बची—विभूति काका ने “सुरक्षा” के नाम पर सब अपनी झोली में डाल लिया था।

दयाल ने ज़ोर डाला कि मूलिया की दो एकड़ ज़मीन उसे वापस मिले। विभूति काका राज़ी तो हुए, पर एक शर्त पर: “मूलिया की शादी हो जाए तो कोई समझदार औरत उसकी बुद्धिहीनता सँभाल लेगी।”

लेकिन कौन-सी लड़की ऐसे आदमी से ब्याह करती? यही सोचकर विभूति काका ने एक “उत्कृष्ट” उपाय सुझाया: “ऐसा करते हैं, पाँच हज़ार रुपए में बंगाल से लड़की ‘खरीद’ लेंगे। पैसे मूलिया की ज़मीन बेचकर आ जाएंगे।”

ऐसा लगा जैसे विभूति काका ने यह तरकीब अरसे से अपने दिमाग़ में तैयार कर रखी थी—बस उसे अमल में लाने का अवसर और किसी साथी की ज़रूरत थी। अब वह साथी उन्हें दयाल के रूप में मिल गया था।

“बात तो सही है—उसकी ज़मीन उसी के काम आएगी,” दयाल ने भी यह तर्क उचित मान लिया।

इस प्रकार, मूलिया की लगभग अस्सी प्रतिशत ज़मीन विभूति काका के नाम हो गई। खून के काका और पड़ोसी काका—दोनों पर आँख मूँदकर भरोसा करते हुए मूलिया ने दस्तख़त कर दिए, अनजान कि दोनों उसी को फँसाने में लगे थे।

उस समय अंतर्राज्यीय दुल्हन-तस्करी का जाल खूब सक्रिय था। वहीं से एक लड़की “मंगवाई” गई—उन दुर्भाग्यशाली लड़कियों में से, जिन्हें कभी अनाथ बताकर, कभी दहेज न दे पाने के कारण “विवाह-बाज़ार में अयोग्य” ठहरा दिया जाता था, और फिर उन पर कीमत लगाकर बेच दिया जाता था। ज़ाहिर है, ऐसी “खरीदी हुई” दुल्हनों को यह भरोसा भी दिला दिया जाता था कि ऐसी शादियाँ कुछ समय के लिए ही होंगी—बस औपचारिकता भर।

शादी का अनुष्ठान बेहद अनौपचारिक रहा। उस दिन लड़की के घर से कोई भी नहीं आया। विभूति काका ही उसके संरक्षक बनकर मंडप में बैठे। पूरा समारोह छोटा और शांतिपूर्ण रहा। भोज पंद्रह दिन बाद रखने की बात कहकर—बिना किसी उचित कारण बताए—टाल दिया गया।

मूलिया तो दुल्हन का नाम तक नहीं जानता था। पर वह धैर्यवान था—सोचा, चौथी रात जब असली दांपत्य-विधि होगी, तब सब पता चल जाएगा।

इस बीच वह पंडित जी के हर आदेश का अक्षरशः पालन करता रहा: टहनी से बने दातून से दाँत मत साफ़ करो—केवल आम के पत्ते इस्तेमाल करो; दाढ़ी मत बनाओ—यह अपशकुन है; बाहर मत निकलो—चुड़ैलें और भूत-प्रेत शरीर में घुस सकते हैं; और न जाने कितनी हिदायतें।

तीसरे दिन तड़के ही फुसफुसाहट शुरू हो गई। दोपहर तक सच सामने आ चुका था—बंगाली दुल्हन ग़ायब थी।

गाँव वाले खोज में निकल पड़े। घर के पीछे का तालाब छाना गया—वह इतना उथला था कि बकरी भी उसमें नहीं डूब सकती थी। श्मशान भी तलाशा गया—क्योंकि माना जाता था कि भूत-प्रेत नई दुल्हनों को वहाँ ले जाकर उन पर तरह-तरह के पैशाचिक प्रयोग करते हैं।

लेकिन दुल्हन का कहीं कोई पता नहीं चला। शाम होते-होते यह बात हाट के दिन की अफ़वाहों की तरह पूरे गाँव में फैल गई। सब यह अंदाज लगा रहे थे कि वह अपनी मायके यानी बंगाल वापस चली गई है।

पास-पड़ोस के संदेह से बचने के लिए दयाल साइकिल लेकर दुल्हन के कथित गाँव की ओर निकल पड़ा—हालाँकि यह सब जानते थे कि वह गाँव कहाँ है, यह बात स्वयं दयाल को भी साफ़ नहीं थी। निकलने से पहले, दयाल और विभूति—दोनों—सतही तौर पर व्यथित होकर घड़ियाली आँसू बहा रहे थे, पर भीतर ही भीतर समझ चुके थे कि लोग इतनी आसानी से उन्हें बेक़सूर नहीं मानेंगे। फिर भी, रात दस बजे वह एक कामयाब जासूस की भाँति लौट आया और घोषणा की कि दुल्हन और उसका पूरा परिवार तीर्थयात्रा पर गया है। पड़ोसियों के हवाले से उसने यह भी जोड़ दिया कि यह यात्रा शादी के उपलक्ष्य में किए गए किसी व्रत का हिस्सा है।

गाँव वालों को इस कहानी पर ज़रा भी भरोसा नहीं हुआ। जिस गाँव का ज़िक्र दयाल ने किया था, वहाँ जाकर जाँच-पड़ताल सम्पन्न कर उसी रात साइकिल से लौट आना लगभग असंभव था।

लेकिन तब तक मूलिया की लगभग सारी ज़मीन विभूति काका के नाम हो चुकी थी—अब आधिकारिक रूप से भी। उसके हिस्से में बस एक पानी से भरा, बेकार-सा टुकड़ा बचा था।

विभूति काका ने फिर “महानता” दिखाते हुए मूलिया को अपने घर में रख लिया—मज़दूरी के बदले रोटी देकर। बाद में उनका बेटा श्याम सुंदर भी यही परंपरा निभाता रहा। मूलिया अपनी ही शैली में, भले अनाड़ीपन से, पर पूरी निष्ठा से मेहनत करता रहता।

पर भीतर ही भीतर वह एक सपना सँजोए था—वह दोबारा शादी करेगा।

उसका आत्मविश्वास अडिग था—ना वह बूढ़ा है, ना अयोग्य। वह अभी भी पानी ढो सकता है, लकड़ियाँ ला सकता है, सब्ज़ियाँ तोड़ सकता है—और शायद किसी दिन, एक पत्नी भी हासिल कर सकता है।

पैसा भी कोई समस्या नहीं थी—उसका कीचड़ भरा छोटा-सा टुकड़ा पाँच हज़ार में खरीदने को लोग तैयार थे।

लेकिन अफ़सोस—अब उसके विवाह-वार्ताओं में मदद करने वाला कोई नहीं बचा था। विभूति काका और दयाल काका—दोनों चल बसे थे। और अंतर्राज्यीय दुल्हन-तस्करी का जाल भी बहुत पहले ही टूट चुका था।

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By

अनन्त नारायण नन्द 

बालासोर, 5/12/2025 

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The Question and the Silence

 

The Question and the Silence

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Prabhakar was fifty-five when he finally realised that his life had passed quietly. It felt as though the years had slipped by before he could even keep track of which days were happy and which were not. There were no significant achievements to fill the pages of an autobiography. Yet he knew one thing for sure: people would still remember him with warmth when they spoke of a “good man.”

He was a bachelor, a retired schoolteacher, and an austere soul whose entire wardrobe could fit inside a pillowcase: one blue shirt, one pair of black trousers, and a pair of rubber slippers so worn out that even they would sigh if they could.

He had spent more than half his life waiting for the tiny private school to become government-run and pay him a regular salary, for recognition as a member of government staff that never came, and for pension papers that arrived ten years later than they should have. And by the time the government finally acknowledged him, he was already past forty and had to work fifteen more years to qualify for the minimum pension.

He taught mathematics with sincerity, lived modestly, and ate frugal vegetarian meals, often with mashed potatoes as a side. People called him a maverick teacher, though even that sounded flamboyant for a man who ironed his shirt with a brick wrapped in a loincloth.

Yet something within him was always restless—not a complaint against the unjust world, but a longing for meaningful dialogue with himself.

When he turned fifty-five, he resigned mid-career, collected whatever little savings he had, and decided to do something he had postponed all his life: think.

He walked to Puri, arduously trudging for fifteen days on foot, sleeping under trees, bathing in public tube wells, and drinking tea only if someone insisted on offering it for free. His beard grew naturally, not by design, and it granted him a dignity he didn’t initially recognise. It was only when a roadside tea-seller refused to accept money and insisted he was serving a sadhu that Prabhakar realised what had elevated his stature.

When he reached the Jagannath temple, he had walked and thought all the way, but could not muster a wish. He had surpassed the usual expectations of human life. He did not desire money, marriage, comfort, or longevity. All he wanted was to ask the Lord one question.

Except… he did not know what the question was.

So he stood, his head bowed.

And stood, his hands folded.

And he stood for twelve straight hours in the sanctum, until the guards gently ushered him out, saying, “Babu, darshan over… gharku jao,” meaning: you have had enough audience with the Lord, now go back home.

He emerged from the sanctum and sat in the temple courtyard. One day passed. Then another. Then yet another. He continued to seek a question worth asking God. He warned himself: nothing trivial, nothing selfishly hedonistic.

But nothing happened. No magic, no epiphany.

A few spiritual squatters were pontificating on eternal truth and human duty. Prabhakar was astonished—how had these people become self-proclaimed possessors of “deep wisdom” without asking even a single question of God? They were merely repeating memorised verses, as if determined to impress others by piling up words.

He tried thinking of regrets, but none seemed worthy. His friends had pursued higher education, earned high salaries, married paragons of beauty, built palatial houses, educated their children overseas, arranged enviable marriages for their daughters, and so on… but despite knowing all this, Prabhakar felt no regret.

He tried to remember whom he had hurt, and because he had always spoken his mind without filters, the list turned out to be embarrassingly long and, in most cases, absurdly trivial. Once, he had made a sweeping remark that “one has to be a refugee to succeed in life.” What he really meant was the resilience to rebuild life from scratch and still flourish; yet it was a careless generalisation—true in some cases perhaps, but still a barbed innuendo that seemed directed at a topper whose family had come from East Bengal during the Partition. She had looked at him with such piercing intensity that, for a moment, he felt his knees might buckle. All his life, Prabhakar had wanted to apologise to her once more, but she had vanished from town after completing her brilliant graduation.

Looking back, he realised that most of the people he had “hurt” were simply victims of foolish, half-joking remarks—slip-ups that time would surely have erased from their memories.

He tried recalling unfinished dreams, but he had never been a dreamer.

He even laughed at the idea of getting married at fifty-five and then asking God whether it was still possible.

On the fourth day, he gave up. With a strange peace, he told Lord Jagannath silently:

“Lord, grant me leave for now. If a question stirs in my heart, I will return.
And if you have a question for me, may it find its own way to my heart.”

He grabbed his jhola and resumed walking—this time in the direction of Konark.

Konark stood in contrast to Puri: whereas Puri focused on God, Konark celebrated Man—sculpted, sensual, unapologetically mortal. Prabhakar sat by the sea, wearing his faded shirt and trousers, pondering what sort of divine sign he was meant to receive here, among stone lovers frozen in impossible poses.

He spent the entire night wide awake on the sand. Midnight passed, and the April breeze turned chilly, but he didn’t mind. He kept asking himself: what question have I carried in my heart all my life?

And then, sometime past midnight, a small childhood memory rose—shyly, like a leaf floating up from the bottom of a forgotten well.

He was seven. He and his father were walking back from his maternal uncle’s village. Somewhere midway, there was a small railway station.

His father had asked him to wait there. “I’ll be back soon,” he had said baldly.

But he didn’t return “soon.” Four trains arrived and departed. Evening faded into night. Hunger gnawed at his stomach like a dull ulcer.

He thought of running away on a train to a distant land where rosgullas were free, and everyone wore wool on winter mornings. He imagined his father being insulted by a moneylender, and that was why he left his son behind to spare him the humiliation. He imagined his father meeting another woman—a secret he didn’t want his son to carry home. Prabhakar had also seen an uncle doing this in the village. He feared the possibility of suicide: a familiar whisper among adults when debts became overwhelming. He envisioned everything a frightened seven-year-old could imagine. Or even more than that, as if he had grown wise before his age.

He slept on the bench at the railway platform, dreaming of food—rosgulla, pulao, meat—the usual feasts hungry children dream of.

And at ten at night, happily for Prabhakar, his father returned.

He was silent.

And he was stoic.

No apology. No explanation.

In stony silence, father and son walked home through the darkness. By midnight, the entire family had gone to bed hungry, as usual. Returning empty-handed from the moneylender was hardly the sort of news a husband would wake his wife to share.

The next morning, Prabhakar and his three sisters went to the fallow, waterlogged fields to gather wild paddy. They sifted it by swinging their winnows in reverse so that the ripe grains fell into the tray instead of flying out, and by noon they had collected enough to make a few kilos of coarse rice.

Life went on, but the question remained. It kept hiding itself, afraid of being dismissed as too trivial:

Where had his father gone that day? And why had he left his little boy alone?

Prabhakar had buried that question for five decades. But on the seashore of Konark, it bubbled up again—raw, intact, wordless.

For the first time in fifty-five years, Prabhakar quietly realised something painful: his father must have been battling his own demons that day—debts, shame, helplessness, perhaps even thoughts of ending it all.

But he didn’t.

He came back. Late, exhausted, silent… But he came back whole.

A man who could have run away stayed.

A man who could have died chose to walk home.

A man with nothing left still carried his son back.

However, it wasn’t an answer to any question. But it was an insight into a father’s hidden war. And that was enough.

Prabhakar walked back from Konark to Puri, and then home—not to ask a question, but to silently thank his father… not the deity.

He reached his village a month later.

He resumed free tuition for those in need. Students gathered around him once again—some poor, others wealthy, pretending to be poor, and some pretending to be even poorer. It was the typical village barter system, like exchanging a haircut for a few kilos of mangoes or paddy. Prabhakar received vegetables from his students' kitchen garden to supplement his mashed potatoes. He smiled at their theatrics and continued to teach everyone as usual.

But in the corner of the small room, facing the children, he placed something new: a black-and-white photo of his father. Not garlanded. Not worshipped. Just there, as a quiet witness.

When curious students asked, “Sir, who is he?” Prabhakar replied, “A man who once lost his way… but returned. And because he returned, I am here today to teach you.”

Their curiosity waned after Prabhakar’s gentle prevarication.

He never asked God another question. But in teaching freely, beneath his father’s photograph, he lived the answer he had been seeking.

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By 

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Balasore, 28-11-2025

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