FICTION

The sun was setting beyond the bamboo trees. Ratna looked like a lucid dream, gathering her straw baskets in the fading evening light. Ranga held her in his gaze and felt as if the entire charm of the forest had gathered in her. Those days, whenever he looked at Ratna, he had a queer feeling that she was Kusumala Devi, the mythical Soliga beauty, and only a deity could marry her. Local folklore had it that Rangaswami — the patron deity of the hills, and considered to be the manifestation of Lord Vishnu — saw her picking tubers in the forest. Enamoured by Kusumala Devi’s beguiling beauty, he proposed to her and they married after her willingness. When Ranga told Ratna about his feelings, she laughed out loud.

“There is no Swamy, appa,” she said. “There are only men left on earth now. Some are like bamboo trees and some are wild trees.”

“Now tell me do you think are we?” Then she asked, looking seriously into Ranga’s eyes.

“We are Soligas, Ratna. We’re the bamboo people.”   

“We can be wild trees, too, appa,” she said in a strong tone.

Wild trees . . .! He fell silent, and felt as if something had shattered somewhere deep inside himself. The sensation of severe grief began to his heart sink.

For years he had wished to become a wild tree, deep rooted into the ground to spread his branches all around over the earth. He had joined Gowda’s political party with that single goal in his mind, and did whatever he could to gratify his passionate desire. He had stayed there and swallowed and endured all the mulch and muck he was given — the food, the water, and the air. But in the most recent gram panchayat elections, when Gowda chose Shivappa to replace him as a member, a disheartening disbelief overwhelmed Ranga. He could not understand what was left for him because he was hindered from becoming a wild tree.

Would he ever be able to become a wild tree? Ruminating, repining, and lighting a cheap bidi, he sat down under a six-hundred-year-old Dodda Sampige tree (huge Champaka tree). The evening whispered in the whirling waters of nearby flowing the Bhargavi River with its darkness descended secretly from unknown spaces.

This darkness had been the destiny of the Soligas since times immemorial.

The Soligas, an indigenous tribe, had lived for centuries in the forests spread around the Biligiri Ranga betta, white rock hills, in Karnataka. These forests were their refuge, their sustainer, their deity. They were an inseparable part of the forests, and were familiar with every nook and cranny of the place. They wandered in the forests without any fear or fret. The forest scent wafted from their clothes. They bowed before Bidiramma Tayi — the tribal goddess of the bamboo. And their bond with nature was so deep and strong that they sincerely believed they were born from the bamboo trees. They were the bamboo people. They reveled and frolicked in these forests, and roamed so freely, unwarily and aimlessly around that the government felt it was crucial and exigent to give their life a meaning and a purpose. It issued several laws to bring them to live closer to civilized human beings.

They were given lands, and settled in podus, houses, built exclusively for them.  And in this way, they started living in huts made from bamboo and dry grass.

They collected amla, shikakai, honey, tubers and bamboo from the forests, and began to earn money by selling them. Many NGOs came up to create general awareness among them, and built schools for them, but . . .

Ranga took a long puff on his bidi and saw how desolate and insignificant his village looked, drenched in the darkness of the evening. The roads lay unpaved, drinkable water was scarce, houses stood dilapidated, and electricity was still a rarity.

What did they get by falling into the category of civilized human beings?

They observed the constantly changing government laws, the shrinking forests, a generation moving away from its customs and traditions, their general backwardness and poverty, and ruminated despairingly on the life whose yearnings, dreams, and quests had captivated their hearts and minds in its enchanting spell. Where was that life?

“Namaste Ranga.” Someone’s voice brought him out of the world of thoughts. He was Shankara. “I am going to Gopala’s house for some medicine. Nagamma has caught a bad cold.” As he said that, Gopala’s features flashed before Ranga’s eyes. Well-dressed, hardworking and kind-hearted, Gopala was a very nice young man who worked in the dispensary. He kept a good stock of medicine at his home, and used to give it to the villagers whenever the dispensary was closed.

“Gopala is a good boy,” Shankara kept on singing his praises. A fleeting thought sneaked into Ranga’s mind. He must be a perfect match for Ratna. But he immediately shook the thought off. So what if he is a nice man!  My Ratna too is the personification of Kusumala Devi whom no less than a Swami would seek as his bride.

I wish something like this could happen.

After Shankara’s departure, he began to circumambulate the Dodda Sampige tree with folded hands, worshipping the Shiva Lingams put up there, praying for his daughter.

Ø  

Dressed in clothes that smelled like the forests, walking in the forests that spread far and wide, pausing here and faltering there, Ranga felt as if the trees turned towards him no sooner than they saw him and bowed down to greet him. His heart overflowed with passion, and he clung to them unintentionally. There was something beating inside them. And the rustle of their leaves was in perfect harmony with his breath. Suddenly he remembered that these trees had also endured a lot. So many of them were chopped down. And others were still being axed every day. They were falling down all over the forest trails. People had terrorized the forests for their own benefit. Nothing was left safe. The forests were shrinking and the trees were disappearing.

A bit disheartened and sad, he started collecting tubers.

He walked towards the pond and sat down under the dense shade of a wild tree near it and just stared into the distance, as the afternoon sun started getting hotter. But what was that? For a moment, shock held him immobile. There was not a leaf or blade of grass around as far as his eyes could see. Only jumbles of noxious lantana weeds were spreading their spiky, poisonous leaves all over the place. Trampling the chest of the earth, clutching the entire area in their deathly clasps, absorbing all the manure, air, and water, they had asserted their venomous existence everywhere. How could natural grass grow in their presence? What would the wild animals eat? It was very important for the Soligas to follow their unique ancient weed cleaning method of Theregubenki, or the grass fire. Long dry grass should be set on fire, but the government had banned it. Who was going to start grass burning?

He was returning from the forest after gathering the tubers when he came across Harisha who looked very upset.

“What happened?” He asked worriedly. “Is everything okay with you?”

“What’s left there to tell you now, Ranga?” Harisha was about to cry. “I don’t have money to pay the interest on my loan. And Nagappa has threatened me to take away my daughter if I don’t pay off.”

This was yet another complaint against the man. The news about Nagappa’s oppression and excesses were constantly pouring in. But he and Harsha were friends.

“What are you talking about?” Ranga was taken with surprise.

“Help me, Ranga,” Harisha beseeched with desperation. But Ranga did not know what to do. He reassured Harisha, but himself became very anxious. The younger generation had not yet realized where it was heading to. Nagappa was the son of Buddy Bangarappa, and they were hereditary money lenders. But nothing like that had yet happened. They had never set their evil eyes on any woman. It was not the way of the Soligas to be on the lookout for the daughters of others. No one knew how and why Nagappa had stretched his arms so long that his was the only authority spread far and wide, crushing all that came under his feet, clutching the entire area in his fists, trampling the earth, absorbing all its nourishments, its air, its water. The Soligas were left with no recourse, and had started to suffocate.

Theregubenki — thought Ranga. But who will start this fire?

Ø  

The night was getting darker in the dense forests.

A large tent was erected in the village with electric light bulbs hanging from it. There was a lot of light all around. Film songs were blaring out raucously from the loudspeakers attached to the poles. The whole village had gathered there and were celebrating their traditional annual festival Rotti habba. As the evening fell, the villagers received blessings of their Thimmadi — local priest — after performing puja of the Dodda Sampige tree. They made bread with the Ragi — a finger millet widely grown as a cereal in their fields — and offered it at the feet of the deity. They then distributed and ate the bread and hummed joyful songs.

Ranga, on the other hand, was sitting among a clump of trees under the open sky, his bamboo-like body was wrapped in Jotra — the traditional apparel of the Soliga men, a cloth from waist down to knee, and a piece of cloth wrapped around the shoulder to ward off the cold. He was listening to a guide who was talking to a group of tourists.

“They will now start the Goru Goruku Gorukana dance. The boys will dance and the girls will choose their spouse for, whom they will throw biscuits or sweets. If the boy agrees, they will both go to the forest for a few days. Then the boy will return to take the blessing of the head of the village. He will pay twelve rupees as compensation and get married. This is the custom of the Soligas.”

Suddenly the noise of a movie song grew so loud that Ranga felt as if an earthquake had struck. He saw that all the boys were dancing wildly to that tune. They gradually included the tourists also to it, and to amuse and entertain them they even went to the extent of surrendering their self-respect.

Deva… what has happened to this generation!  Ranga was visibly distressed.

He began to feel very helpless, lost in the world of his thoughts. When the noise became unbearable, Ranga felt he could not breathe. He walked about to sit at the feet of the Lord. And at a close distance, he saw Ratna in a crowd of girls, bathed in spring water with her hair adorned with wild flowers. Wearing a floral printed sari, she was looking like Kusumala Devi. He also saw Gopala, busy in preparing for the dance. There were other boys there too. Nagappa was one of them.

I don’t know what’s going to happen. He mused as he sat quietly beside Prema.

 He had no idea what hour of the night it was when the Goruku began. The boys began to dance in a circle around the big Sampige tree. And the girls watched their dance amorously, gathering the burning intoxication of youth in their half-opened eyes.

“I have asked Ratna to choose Gopala,” Prema whispered.

But my Ratna is Kusumala Devi for whose hand the Swami will come. Ranga thought.

The boys were lost in their dance, singing Goruku:

“And the spider was weaving its own web,

Dodda Sampige, my lord, protect ourselves.”

The night was getting colder. Skipping, hopping, faltering, twisting, holding the stars in their eyes, and carrying moonlight on their faces, the girls were throwing biscuits and sweets on their favourite boys. Ranga sat motionless, quietly gazing at Ratna. And Ratna was engrossed in herself, sitting with other girls — quite unaware of her surroundings. She kept looking and thinking, and then suddenly threw a few pieces of sweets. But on whom and why? Ranga was stunned with utter astonishment when he learnt the answers to his anxieties. It was Nagappa whom Ratna had selected as her spouse. Suddenly Ranga felt as if the hot burning sun had just risen and fallen inside him. And then a fire broke out in the bamboo forest, spreading its blaze far and wide.

….

(Translated from URDU by Syed Sarwar Hussain)

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