Kau

shik

K G

ho

shLastRites

People

Mem

orie

sUNFORGETTABLE

Kaushik K Ghosh was born in Ranchi and subsequently lived in the cities of Ranchi, Durgapur, Chennai, Kolkata. Currently he is a resident of Thane, Mumbai. He has travelled and worked in countries and regions like UK, Asia Pacific and Middle East. A postgraduate in Engineering, Kaushik is an IT professional and currently employed with an IT MNC. Last Rites Unforgettable People, Unforgettable Memories is his first novel.

You can know more about the author and the novel by visiting www.kaushikkghosh.com or by emailing at kaushik@kaushikkghosh.com

Not death but his last rites. Confusion prevailed, a fear of society loomed large and the thought processes of conditioned minds seemed to prevail. A person with an amalgamation of different religions had left everyone perplexed. A Muslim by birth, brought up and lived with Hindu families, not averse to entering a church - was he a Muslim at the end of his life?

Last Rites moves back and forth, not only in time and space but in a milieu fluctuating with virtues and sins, conflicts triggered by religious intolerance & political imbroglios while throwing up the most interesting & enigmatic characters of the small city of Ranchi. It is a city with its own flavour, holding in its lap unforgettable people & unforgettable memories spanning a few decades.

For a band of tightly knit friends whose caste and religion is of no consequence to each other, performing honourable last rites for Asgar Ali alias Arun Kumar alias…the Man Who Never Spoke…take precedence over unforeseen challenges. What happens finally in that hostile environment?

A story with a difference exploring new dimension of human relationships!

LastRitesPeopleMemoriesUNFORGETTABLE

Kaushik K Ghosh

LastRitesPeopleMemoriesUNFORGETTABLE

A Novel

Last RitesUnforgettable People,

Unforgettable Memories

Last RitesUnforgettable People,

Unforgettable Memories

a novel by

Kaushik K Ghosh

First published in India in 2010 by CinnamonTeal Publishing

Copyright © 2010 Kaushik K. GhoshISBN: 978-93-80151-51-9

Kaushik K. Ghosh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be produced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Cover Design: H. Jayraj

CinnamonTeal Print and Publishing,Plot No 16, Gogol, Housing Board Colony, Margao Goa 403601http://cinnamonteal.in

i

Dedicated to the memory of

my father

How can I forget.....

My sweet daughter Mithi who thinks her papa is the best writer.

My wife Aparna who always believed I can write.

My mother and mother-in-law for their support in whatever I do.

ii

Don’t walk in front of me, I may not follow. Don’t walk behind me, I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend.

Albert Camus

7

Prologue

The Maurya Express made a sluggish entry into platform number one. When it finally halted, coach S5 was in front of us. We moved towards S7 according to Dhir’s advice. Even though there was no big crowd, the organized chaos of a railway station was visible. Dhir asked them to occupy seats 7 & 8 and went down to track the ticket collector, popularly addressed as the TC.

The only large piece of luggage, the dark brown suitcase, was put under the seat and they settled down. They looked relaxed for the first time today. I was unsure whether there was anything else to be discussed. I uttered those few customary parting words, “inform us about your safe arrival at Jagmalwa, be cautious during the journey, and take care of the cash and the luggage,” and so on.

While I was trying, in vain, to search for a few more words, Dhir arrived with the TC and introduced them. He paid the TC one hundred rupees - of course not part of any official charge - it was but a convenience charge. He went back to the platform and soon returned with some dry snacks, a packet of bread and some fruits. He handed them over to Sobati, the last gesture from our end.

I took this opportunity to get down from the coach. We stood in front of the window, next to their seats, their faces partly hidden behind those iron rods cutting across the hollow space that constitutes a window. We looked blankly at each other for the next couple of minutes, our blankness broken only by the guard blowing a long whistle and vigorously waving his green flag up and down. The driver responded and the train started chugging out of the platform. We waved hands, a last glimpse of Sobati through the window and then, only a side view that looked very similar to Bouka, before it gradually faded away. We stood still till the guard’s cabin crossed us, the guard still waving the green flag. Finally we could only see the red light glowing brightly at rear of the train.

All of a sudden, there was a void. The last 36 hours had been eventful to say the least, throwing one unforeseen situation after another at us. I reflected on the events that occurred during this period.

9

36 hours ago

10

Kaushik K. Ghosh

11

ONE

The morning was as good as it could be at a coal miners’ residential colony during a sprightly winter. The morning chilly, as was normal during the first month of a year in this part of the country. It was the beginning of another day of work at Rajarappa, coal mines under Central Coal Fields, approximately one hundred kilometres from Ranchi. Ranchi was the second largest city in Bihar at that time, in the eastern part of India. I had landed with a job in this colliery township a month ago as a member of a consulting team. More than my professional experience, my familiarity with this part of the country was considered an important criterion for me to be engaged with this assignment.

I had been to Rajarappa many times since childhood, not because of those dusty coal mines, but for the famous “Chinnamastika” temple located a few kilometers away from the coal miners’ colony. “Ma Chinnamastika”, a Hindu deity supposed to fulfill all wishes if one prayed at her door. It was not that I had been praying to the Goddess all those years to grant me my wishes but a visit to Rajarappa was more of an outing with someone. At times it used to be my friends, on other occasions my family and relatives accompanied me during those early years.

One would pray to the Goddess for mannat; once their wishes were fulfilled, they would return to thank and offer respect to her. The cycle was vicious. Pebbles and stones of different shapes and sizes picked up from the river meandering past the temple used to be kept on the terrace and the cornice of the temple whenever a wish was made. They were brought down during next visit, once it was fulfilled. That was the custom followed by those having a strong belief in the power of the Goddess. Of course, devotees could almost never recognise their stones when they returned and used to randomly pick one from the cluster.

Belief in the Goddess was immense, the temple complex kept on growing as the faith of the people in Ma Chinnamastika grew. The geographical scope of her followers kept on extending and people from the neighbouring states of West Bengal and Orissa started pouring in.

Over the years, it was not only the fulfillment of wishes but any important work or achievement in one’s life that started getting associated with this temple; be it a religious ceremony for one’s newborn, the purchase of the long dreamed of Maruti 800 car or a simple marriage for those who could not afford a lavish affair. The rustic village temple affected its surroundings

12

Kaushik K. Ghosh

and larger concrete temples came up in its vicinity along with electricity, shops, a market and Dharamshalas. Other temples sprouted close by and the village transformed into a pilgrimage spot with more Gods and Goddesses making their presence felt around Ma Chinnamastika.

During my childhood, the serenity of this place had me captivated. Its secluded location, the confluence of Damodar and Bhera rivers with the Bhera making a fall in the gorge of Damodar, the dense forest around where Damodar used to get lost in the distance – these used to fascinate me. In the midst of this natural and raw beauty did the ancient temple earn its reverence.

It was not only me but also the members of the joint family I belonged to, my neighbours and friends who visited this temple regularly. They used to make an annual trip, at the very least, to Rajarappa from Ranchi in a hired vehicle, some to enjoy a picnic, others out of their respect and belief in the Goddess. The coal mines were not a place of interest for us.

*****

We used to pass the township on our way to the temple, hardly taking notice of its existence. The coal mines were open cast, a miner was not required to go underneath to mine coal. The huge coal deposit and a well-spread coal belt that started from Ramgarh and went beyond Jharia, up to Asansol, made this place commercially important.

The coal deposit, one of the largest in the world, was an indicator of the huge mineral resource potential of this area. Most of the mines used to be underground mines though there were a few open cast mines like Rajarappa, popularly known as OCMs. OCMs were safer when compared to underground mines. The economy of this belt was almost entirely dependent on coal – coal mining, coal washing plants - where cleaning of coal takes place, transport businesses to transport coal, employee colonies and almost all businesses that supported human existence here. Finally, the theft of coal also contributed to the economy though it could not be considered formally.

I had completed my post graduation a few months ago and was comparatively new in the organisation. I was expecting some senior consultant to be with me. I was, however, told to hold the fort for some time as all consultants were busy with other assignments. My native place being Ranchi, everyone else in the team suggested it would be good if I went and set things in place. Hence, one fine morning, I landed at Central Coalfields, Rajarappa, with a totally different purpose as compared to earlier trips. My incentive was I would be able to visit my family and friends in Ranchi during the weekends.

I met local officials to begin the assignment. I was in an unfamiliar

Last Rites

13

situation. The subject was new to me, the functioning of official machinery was different and I had to do a major part of the study in open mines – measuring and analysing vibrations of bearings for shovels, drills, dumpers and other mining machinery equipment. Condition based monitoring to understand the working of the bearings or oil analysis was not at all related to my domain, but new employees are often taken for granted. My most valued qualification was that I knew this area to an extent. The team in Kolkata was not interested in coming to this small, dry and undeveloped coal based colony.

A small employee residential quarter was converted into a guest house for us. I was supposed to be there for at least three to four months and was to be joined by two senior colleagues in a month. That is the reason the usual guest house meant for short stays was not allotted to us.

The single, stand-alone quarter was furnished minimally in the local style, in complete conflict with my tastes. Instead of a comfortable bed there was a chowki, a wooden plank purchased at local market coupled with a crude job by a local carpenter. The mattress, pillow and bed cover were uniformly distasteful and reflected the attitude of the local staff towards this assignment. Large orange coloured flowers printed on a dark blue background didn’t speak too highly of the taste of the person who had purchased the bed cover and pillows. The mosquitoes used to have a field day at night and hence a mosquito net had been provided – it was green. There was a riot of gaudy colours – yellow, orange, green and blue all around that bedroom.

My temporary home in Rajarappa was at the end of the colony and next to it passed a railway line that connected the coal washing plants to the main line at Barkakana, another mining town which was a railway junction. More often than not, the goods train idling on the track and waiting for reasons unknown to me used to be my only neighbour. The grunting of the diesel engine often kept me awake until late in a place otherwise devoid of a night life. I used to think why out of all places was I here and why out of all places had the rail engine chosen this spot to share its loneliness with me. I never got to see the crew and used to wonder where they stayed and how the materials inside the wagons were taken care of.

There were stories galore about frequent thefts in the colony. I was always apprehensive of an attack by thieves, being the only soul at the far end of the colony. The colony was dotted with such stand-alone single storey quarters and my accommodation was the last one, just before that rail line. It was an ideal situation for thieves. Though I had very few personal belongings to lose, the instruments I was carrying for conducting vibration analysis, something like the Electro Cardiograph equipment meant for machines, were valuable. Serious complications would have

14

Kaushik K. Ghosh

followed had they been stolen, as they were official property and key to the execution of this assignment.

It was another fact that I was unaware of how to run the analyser exactly and understand the vibration graph that was generated as a report. It was not my expertise and I was only a proxy there. Hence, I had to pretend to run the analyser until an expert would arrive at Rajarappa. The isolated accommodation, the difficult and unknown job combined to make me feel low. But who knew that morning, something far worse was waiting for me.

*****

The morning had just begun. There was a nip in the air, quite usual for a winter morning. There was nothing that excited me as far as this job was concerned. I had been putting the probe of the analyser on the bearings of the shovels or drilling machines for the last few days, as directed. Anyway, I had learned to do whatever was expected of me though my heart was not on the job.

I was ready for the day and left the lonely quarter at 9am for the guesthouse, where breakfast used to be served. Toast, some butter, a bit of jam and a deep fried omelette. At times, butter would not be available in the local market and then one had to live with oily alternatives. A fixed breakfast at the same table, a couple of reminders required to get the tea – that was part of my daily routine to start the day. Oil used to drip from the omelette. The smell of raw mustard oil soon became a part of life, so did the cook and the waiter.

At times, the cook himself would double up as the waiter as the latter used to go on leave frequently. It was worse when the roles were reversed. Only with countless reminders, would bread with some butter or jam get served. Gradually though, I was getting used to some of the interesting aspects of local life. It was observed quite often that as soon as the miners would get their salary or any other payment like overtime or bonus, they would not come to work for the next couple of days at least, enjoying handia, a local drink fermented from rice or country liquor bought with the money they received. It was a social problem not new to me as I had seen such instances since my childhood.

*****

I had not walked even a hundred meters from the quarter when I was for a surprise. I saw Babu, one of my relatives staying in Ranchi. He was riding pillion on the motorbike of another relative, Uttam Da, who stayed in Rajarappa. Uttam Da had tried to make my stay a little comfortable in this forlorn place by inviting me to his residence where his wife served homely

Last Rites

15

food on quite a few occasions. Why of all people, Babu, in Rajarappa and that too so early in the morning? I could not think of any reason. Before I could think, he was in front of me. He alighted from the motor bike and stated without context

“Bouka is no more.”Those words hit me like a bullet; words failed me. I felt as if I was

unable to see anything clearly, realising that my eyes were full of tears behind the dark glasses. I could only ask,

“When?” He replied, “I don’t know exactly. When we tried waking him up

around 6 in the morning, there was no response. He might have passed away during his sleep.”

This was devastating news for me. It was so unexpected. I had met Bouka only last weekend when I was in Ranchi. He had not been keeping well and my uncle had taken him to the doctor last week. It had not appeared to be serious at all. I never thought that would be my last meeting with him. It was so unpredictable. We never know what awaits us round the next corner.

Once it was confirmed that Bouka was no more, Babu had immediately left Ranchi to inform me as there was no direct telephone number where I could be contacted. Babu reached Rajarappa and tracked down Uttam Da. Uttam Da accompanied Babu to inform me. I had to leave immediately.

*****

We were dropped at Gola Road – a small junction on the highway where we could get transport to Ramgarh and further to Ranchi.

We got place in a Trekker, the most commonly used mode of public transport in this coal belt. It resembled a Jeep; open from almost all sides, with a lower seating position when compared to it. Its unique feature used to be its carrying capacity. It had a huge appetite and it could devour passenger after passenger. I remembered an incident when one such Trekker was stopped by the superintendent of police on a special drive against overloading. He asked all the passengers to come out and counted – he only stopped at thirty eight. He could scarcely believe it. Passengers all around, to the left of the driver, to the right of the driver, on the toolbox outside the vehicle, five or six seated in the second row seat which could fit only three. The seats in the rear, those facing each other, were even more cramped, a few were on the roof with others hanging and holding the supports wherever available.

At times I used to get surprised by the skill of the driver, who in spite of sitting at least a foot from the steering wheel, his legs reaching out diagonally to fish for the brake pedal, clutch and accelerator, used

16

Kaushik K. Ghosh

to manage this feat. Unless one took a closer look, it was difficult to see who was driving, as it might be a passenger actually sitting in front of the steering wheel. The police superintendent was so impressed by the loading capacity of the vehicle and skill of the driver that he let him go and told him most unexpectedly, “If some law allows me, I would recommend you for an award. I don’t know whether the Guinness book has any provision for such a record.”

As the Trekker left for Ramgarh, I tried hiding my tears behind my dark glasses and my thoughts started racing back through time.

17

TWO

Jagmalwa. A small village tucked in the vicinity of Thawe town in Goplagunj district in Bihar. It looked like any other village in Bihar, North Bihar to be precise. However, it held special appeal for me – Bouka belonged to this small, nondescript village. Thawe had been quite well-known in that region for its ancient Durga Mandir. People from far off places in Bihar would come to this temple, having great faith in Devi Durga, Goddess of Shakti, the divine feminine force who had killed the demon according to Hindu mythology.

The temple was not far from the highway connecting Goplagunj to other towns of North Bihar – Siwan, Chhapra and Sonepur. The last one, Sonepur, was famous for the longest railway platform at one point of time and of course, for its unique animal fair. The road used to hit a dead end at Pahleja Ghat on the bank of river Ganges where one was required to take a steamer to cross the river and reach Patna, the capital of Bihar, situated on its opposite bank.

The Ganges looked huge and intimidating; during the monsoons, it was difficult to fathom the distance between its banks. The river cruise used to be fun for occasional travellers like me but was a pain for frequent travellers. In our childhood, we used to see the upcoming bridge at a fair distance across the Ganges. It was supposed to be the longest bridge in Asia at that time. It was expected to make travel easier and faster, connecting North Bihar with Central and South Bihar. Much later when I saw the Ganges near Patna, it saddened me because of its dry bed, barren banks and its emptiness.

The bridge across the Ganges was a bridge of hope for the people of North Bihar; it was a bridge of the future, a bridge for development, a bridge of achievement. I don’t remember how long it took to complete the bridge finally and whether it met all the expectations. For sure, it didn’t help in connecting the hearts of the people from South and North Bihar. They remained as far separated as they were earlier, if anything, their differences grew; the cultural divergence could not be bridged by the bridge of convergence across the Ganges.

The highway used to pass through Gopalgunj on its way to the Nepal border; it would touch our house at Goplagunj which was well-known and well recognised in the town. The dark red colour of Mallick Villa was quite prominent. I later noticed this particular shade of red in many British-era

18

Kaushik K. Ghosh

buildings.The road to Goplagunj was traversed less once we shifted to Ranchi,

part of South Bihar at that time and its one time summer capital. I left Gopalgunj with my mother and Bouka after my father’s demise, when I was still fairly young. My father was a promising doctor and commanded great respect in that region. In fact, ours was a family of doctors; my grandfather, my uncle and my father – all doctors.

*****

It was a lazy winter morning. I had been in Gopalgunj during my winter vacation. The usual pass time was sitting at the veranda in one of those relaxing chairs, as I realised later, it was a perfect match for that unhurried lifestyle. The sun had finally come out after a long hiatus and the winter fog finally dissipated. The bullock carts laden with sugarcane were moving towards the sugar mill at their own pace. It looked like a procession of bullock carts – locally known as tyre gari. The reason for their being called so was that unlike wooden wheels of typical bullock carts in use during the olden days, these carts had rubber tyres like a car, making their movement smoother. The roads were littered with cow dung. More the activity, more cow dung; it spread an obnoxious smell all around.

The sugar mill would only run during that particular season when sugarcane used to be available from the farms or until the stock would last. Winter was the peak season and a period full of activity and bustle. People had cash in hand and expenses would spiral. At times, the most visible sign of cash on common people would be the drunkards high on liquor or tadi.

During those childhood days, one of the most interesting features of a winter season was the abundance of fresh sugarcane, readily available from the tyre gari whenever you wanted. It was normal to ask someone standing near the road for sugarcane, and he would pull it from one of those carts moving past leisurely and pass it to you, with the cart owner not minding at all. One could even ask the cart driver for sugarcane and he would oblige. Sitting idle was never a great idea and I got into the most usual activity, chewing a sugarcane piece like many other people around, a symbol of leisure in this part of the state. No doubt this required some effort, but the fresh, sweet juice compensated for the effort in the end. Some exercise for the teeth, gums and facial muscles too!

*****

It was on one such nippy morning that I heard the complete story of Bouka from my uncle, my father’s eldest brother by quite a few years.

“Where is Bouka?” he asked me.

Last Rites

19

I replied, “He has gone to his village.”“Do you know where his village is and what is its name?”“I know it is near Thawe, but the name I don’t know.” “It is Jagmalwa,” he said.Chewing pieces of sugarcane while struggling to manage them within

my mouth, I heard the story of Bouka. It was going to remain in my memory for years; simple yet so different, a story that crossed the boundary of religion, a story that spoke about impeccable commitments, the story of a man who never spoke.

*****

It was the era of Ray Sahab Dr. A.K. Mallick, my paternal grandfather. Migrating from West Bengal, doctor saheb was well established at Gopalgunj. His name and fame matched his towering personality which was rising. It was the pre-independence period. Gopalgunj was a small place, a part of Saran district at that time. The family of Dr. Mallick was a big one, lived in a palatial house, had many family members, numerous servants and many visitors.

Thawe’s Durga Mandir had existed for long, though it was amidst a jungle at that time. History says that the temple was built by Hathua Raja, the king of Hathua. The temple had a peculiar tree that was famous; the peculiarity being the botanical family of the tree had not been identified. The palace of the King of Hathua was there but over a period it had lost its royal touch and was now dilapidated. Various legends surrounded the tree and the idol of Goddess Durga.

It was believed that dacoits in that area used to worship during the late hours of the night and no one dared to go there after sunset. However, there used to be a gala fair during the month of Chaitra by the Hindu calendar (in March – April), that would reach its climax on the day of Ramnavami. People used to visit the fair from all the nearby places – from villages and hamlets. A typical village fair during those days was something people looked forward to with a lot of eagerness. The faith in Devi Durga used to get harmonised with the glittering faces of the villagers coming to visit the fair.

*****

It was at one such fair, where the eldest son of doctor saheb, Biren Babu, came across a small child, hardly four or five years of age, moving around and making weird noises. Initially it was difficult to make out whether this child was shouting or crying. On peering closer, Biren Babu and some other revellers noticed that the child was crying and trying to say something but he could not. They tried asking him questions about his

20

Kaushik K. Ghosh

parents and his village. No response. The child continued to make those strange noises and expressions that no one understood. By that time a small crowd had formed around the child, with everyone clamouring for a look at the devastated child. Someone from the crowd said, “Bouka baa,” deaf and dumb being called “Bouka” in the local dialect. Some words of sympathy floated round; some others started sharing stories of other deaf and dumb people they knew.

The child was crying now, unable to see his parents in the crowd. The growing crowd made him even more vulnerable. He had sat down by then, still crying relentlessly. His unusual vocal efforts were painful to bear. The crowd had got into the next stage of discussion. What should be done with this child? Opinions didn’t vary much. What better place than doctor saheb’s house? They all looked expectantly towards Biren Babu with hope and there was no way a member of one of the most respected families of the region could have denied this social responsibility. Strangely, the child didn’t resist much, as if he knew instinctively he had to go to that house. A small incident in one’s life changes the road to tread. Destiny had something else for him. No one knew who he was, where he came from, what his name was. He became “Bouka” – The man who never spoke.

Biren Babu returned home with Bouka, a child found at a mela, very typical of a village story. The child started getting accustomed to the large villa of doctor saheb. He became friends with the younger sons of Dr. Mallick, Kumar and Amal. The house had many family members but ample space. Patients also used to come to the clinic and wait in the compound. Bouka started getting adjusted to this new environment.

*****

A week had passed since Bouka had been brought home from the Thawe mela. It was another routine day for the Mallick family. No one had a problem with Bouka staying there. Breakfast had just ended. Mathura, a servant attending to outdoor jobs came running inside. He was looking for Biren Babu. On seeing Biren Babu, he said,

“There is someone from Thawe who wants to meet you.”Biren Babu went to meet the man, standing at the steps of the veranda

outside.“What is the matter?” he asked. The person was in a lungee and a shirt, very usual of someone from

the adjoining villages. His small beard at the chin made him appear to be a Muslim. There used to be a number of Muslim patients visiting Dr. Mallick for treatment and Biren Babu initially thought this person had also come to doctor saheb for some help. The visitor stood below the steps leading to the veranda and didn’t dare come up. He saluted Biren babu