Every muscle of his
bare torso moved under the glaring Sun in a fascinating rhythm with each stroke
of spade that devastated rocky surface of the barren land. The sweaty black
body emerged to be a chiselled work of granite; handsomeness of Bhishe Bagdi
was startling among the herd of agricultural labourers working on the field of
Zaminder Harihar Ray. Blazing Sun indicated noon, Bagdi headman Jagai Morol
announced lunch break; it was time to relax under the shades of adjacent trees,
the wives and daughters would carry hot meal of rice and curry for the
fortunate ones. Rest will manage with panta (previous night’s soaked rice),
onion and green chilly that they carried in the morning from home.
Bishe was lying down
under a tamarind tree at a distance; his pack of panta rested unattended
beside, his mind trailing a private dream. Sweet chime of anklets disturbed his
meditation; a pair of soft feet and fancy border of a sari appeared within his sight,
he looked up. A smiling face, fresh as a blooming lotus greeted him; she
offered something on a Sal- leaf, ‘spicy shrimps, to go with your panta’ those
large eyes reflected her emotion unhesitatingly. He remained static holding the
packet for a while, dazed; she disappeared like a restive doe without much
delay. It was quite a routine for Kamli, the daughter of Jagai morol to offer
goodies to lonesome Bishe during lunch break while she brought meal for her
father.
In the semi-darkness
of a smoky earthen lamp Bishe dreamt of a beautiful face, pearly white smile
and a pair of expressive eyes that said everything in in her muteness. He imagined
a household with kids trailing after Kamli, him coming back from weekly market
with patterned sari and glass bangles for her; life was blissful, he didn’t
feel lonely anymore in his solitary grim hut.
Bishe Bagdi, an
orphan from tender age was brought up by his grandmother; indulged by the old
lady, he was mischievous, invincible, yet a large hearted boy. At coming of age
he proved to be the best pupil of Nimai Bagdi, a legendary lathial on his own
right; Bishe earned name as a skilled lathial gradually around the locality.
Bagdis, a warrior community always served as mercenaries for Zaminders and
worshiped weaponry skill for generations. Jagai morol, a right hand man to
Zaminder Harihar Ray led a large group of tough men; there was reason to
believe Jagai liked Bishe for his reputation.
The entire village
was immersed in celebration of ‘Tusu’ on the eve of Makar Sankranti; women
dressed in colourful saris and flowers on their huge buns gathered around the deity,
each one emerged as a vibrant flower in the eyes of aspiring young men
intoxicated with their harmonious songs and ample supply of ‘handiya’(home
brewed liquor). Kamli, dressed in a red bordered yellow sari, marigold
garlanded on her lopsided bun danced along the centre. Her suggestive smile,
sideway glance played a rhythm unknown to his young heart; Bishe was mesmerized,
life without her seemed impossible.
It was quite late in
the night, elders and women had taken leave from the festivity; Jagai with his
men was pondering over the success of the evening as Bishe approached him.
‘Bishe, come sit here my dear boy, someone give him a drink!’ Jagai’s tongue slurred.
‘How much you remind me of your mother, such a beautiful woman, she used to
dance in Tusu like her name Bijli. It was a pity she chose your penniless
father over me’ he sighed with elaborate gesture. ‘Morol, can I ask for a favour?’ ‘Ask for anything,
Jagai won’t refuse you tonight’ handiya was surely causing such generosity. ‘Morol,
I want to marry Kamli’. ‘hmmm, what?’ ‘I want Kamli’s hand, she likes me too.’
The words registered in the intoxicated mind in second attempt, Jagai looked at
Bishe, gradually his jaws hardened. ‘How dare you take kamli’s name!’ Jagai
hissed under breath. ‘I will do anything to keep her happy Morol trust me’
Bishe was desperate. ‘I warn you for the last time; don’t take her name again,
not even in your dreams’ Jagai’s voice was cold. ‘What is my shortcoming? Why
can’t I think of her?’ Bishe sounded rebellious like any young lover. ‘You
penniless beggar, don’t raise voice in front of me’ Jagai roared. ‘I will marry
Kamli, you can’t stop me Morol’. Bishe’s voiced drowned as Jagai’s men pounced
on him like a pack of hounds.
In the darkness of
the night, the listless body of Bishe lied submerged in the mud at the jungle
side of the river bed; flies swarmed around the once handsome blood smeared
mass, the crescent moon remained the silent witness of the ordeal.
***
‘Day after tomorrow
at night there will be raid at your residence, be ready to receive me.
Biswanath babu’ Zaminder Harihar Ray was perplexed to receive the message stuck
at the grand entrance of his palace. Banditry wasn’t unheard of in these
interior parts of Rural Bengal, neither the custom of sending previous alarms;
that was the reason Zaminders maintained large bands of lathials after all.
But, who was this Biswanath?
It was a new moon
night, every house around the estate remained locked from inside; not a ray of
light betrayed any window of the village huts. The palace of Harihar Ray was secured
from every possible entrance; the teak wood entrance of the main residence was
sealed from inside with bars. Jagai with his men remained on guard at the grand
entrance to face any possible threat. The men with their professional agility
strolled around the outer rim looking for any sign of disturbance, but in vain;
occasional cry of owl was the only sound to catch their attention. Eventually,
the tension slackened, everything started looking like a hoax with hardly a
couple of hours left for dawn. ‘Whoever it is has turned back knowing your
reputation Morol, someone new to the trade’ this remark created quite a
laughter among the guards. ‘ha re re re…….’ a deafening war cry echoed in the
silence of the night as a string of blazing torches adorned the darkness at
some distance. A band of oil soaked daring figures led by a black giant poured
over the guards in lightning speed, their shorki (spear) talked quicker than
any move from Jagai’s men. Few of them scaled the wall and approached the paddy
husking site. The leader extracted one of the huge dhenki (paddy husking pedal)
with great strength from its base and looped a rope at its side. Four men
together pulled it in front of the closed door and suspended the dhenki in
front of it with the help of three bamboo poles already fixed firmly on earth.
Then with each push at the suspending end of the pedal it created a magnificent
blow on the wooden door. The seasoned door was good enough to take ten such
blows before it collapsed, Zaminder’s residence fell in the grip of the bandits
quite defenceless. ‘Don’t venture into the ladies’ quarters’ the deep voice was
enough to dissuade the gang members from any such attempt. Harihar Ray brought
money and valuables to the leader rather gratefully, ‘Bishe Bagdi!’ he
recognised the ruthless face smeared with vermilion even in semi darkness.
Dacoits left with the
booty, Zaminder and his associates remained unharmed with one exception; each
of Jagai’s trusted men were brutally murdered. Jagai himself went missing during
the night; two days later his mutilated body was discovered at the river bed
near the jungle.
***
Epilogue
Bishe Dakat (Dacoit Bishe) remained invincible for next two decades until he fell in hands of British rulers, majorly after seizing indigo factory of a Samuel Fandy. He was tried and executed in 1808 for his crimes, but remained immortal in stories and folklores for his exceptional courage and compassion towards poor villagers. Biswanath was a victim of circumstances that turned him into a devil from a simple youth hungry for love, though he succeeded in retaining his humane side intact; that was what made him a hero and evoked imagination of many writers like me.
***
***
Note:
The
story is based on those very little facts that are available about Biswanath,
rest is all my imagination. The scene of robbery described in the story is
based on the usual modus operandi of dacoits of that era.
©2014 ananyapal ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
