Listening to Erosion at Gangani

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It is difficult to dig up faded stories of the earth or make up a story that both looks faded and smells earthy. My friends have shown great ingenuity in overcoming this impasse. Myself having none, must rely on the recollection of past before it completely fades away.

My memory of Gangani goes as far back as my memory of picnics and hazy wintry mornings. A stretch of laterite with patches of cashew trees dips into a gorge with numerous caves and crevices before sloping into the river shilavati. We would cross the river barefoot and my Chhotka would spread his gamcha to catch a fish or two. There was no stair made yet to assist my trembling legs in descend on the yielding soil that glistened like gold in the sun. It was long before we read about soil erosion. For me every crevice was a haunt of stories etched on the soft yellow walls, a maze of figures, human, animal, demonic. Once down I had to stretch my entire neck to look up the ridge at the red rocks sitting tenuously on the eroding curves of yellow.

One of the red rocks on eroded yellow soil

                                      

                           

            My visits to this place would not become half so interesting had I not been accompanied by Malindadu and his tales. He was originally from Purulia, did various jobs at various places since childhood, stayed at our house and managed our poultry farm. I remember him having three chilies in the morning every day, without which, so he claimed, he could not wake up properly. It was difficult to guess his age. He had a sturdy body with a wrinkled face. 

Cave of Baka

Mouth of the Cave

            During a visit he showed me the exact cave in which Bakarakshas lived and how the place was once called Betrabati, the capital of his kingdom Bakadwipa. The nearby village of “Ekara”, he suggested, was the famous place of exile of the pandavas-  “Ekachakranagar”. “Why do we call him ‘baka-rakshasa?”, I asked him. I had seen him on the pages of Upendrakishore’s “Chhotoder Mahabharata” as a huge pot bellied monster and always wondered why his name echoed the sleek naked white egret of unusual patience when he was just a bad tempered glutton. He was silent for a moment and the creases on his forehead thickened. “For that you will have to know the story of the ancient Bagdi kingdom that stretched across charsho jojan”, his booming voice resumed, “The entire place was a thick forest of sal, piyal and mohul back then and leopards and elephants roamed freely and killed people from the adjoining villages, well until the arrival of the great leader Baka”. This Baka was a great hunter and warrior and established peace and order among the warring tribes of this area. He was also a man of wisdom, a Vidyadhara, who could assume any shape and the flap of wing and measure the land and the water with a pair of feet. I could not believe my ears as I have always known him to be the embodiment of gluttony and greed who gobbled up entire villages, human and cattle, in insatiable hunger, from the stories of Mahabharata. It was only because of Bhim who wrestled him to death that the villagers could live in peace. There was a sad smile on Malindadu’s face. It was already dark down the ridge and we had to move while the river still had a tremor of red. “Stories never die even when they are buried alive. Time lays bare their skeletons that can become swords”, Malindadu broke the silence and I sensed the coming of another story… 

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