Biswanath Babu

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.       

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‘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.

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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.

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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. 

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