Flash Fiction: The Judge and the Lawyer

 

                                                           (Downloaded from internet)

Advocate Lalbihari Roy was known as a bail master. He could get bail for any accused arrested and thrown into police or judicial custody. Baina, an active member of Sana pickpocket gang reached Mr. Roy and requested him, “Please get bail for Sana Bhai; we shall see what can be done later. The car festival is nearing; only a week left. As you know, there will be rush in buses and trains. This is our business time. Our business will go astray, if he is not released.”

“What has he done?” asked Mr. Roy

“Pickpocketing…”

“This is nothing. I have obtained bail for persons accused of rape, dacoity, murder. Have you brought money?”

Baina brought rupees five hundred out of his pocket and offered the advocate and said, “Sir, please accept this now. This is not enough, I know. We shall pay you later. I don’t have much money with me now. Sir, you will never lose your fees due to you. Henceforward, our relation will continue and grow up. This is not a kind of one day relationship. Sir, many persons in our profession suggest you are the right person to take up the case; hearing your name from them, I came to you.”

The advocate argued in the court, “Sana Parida is a poor man. A daily wager, he has to work every day to earn his wage; if he misses a day, his family members will starve. There is no evidence he has pickpocketed. This is pure conjecture. Sana Parida was standing behind the person. You know the rush in town buses, people travel as if loaded like potato bags. One cannot stand comfortably in the bus, keeping a distance from one another. Since Sana Parida was standing behind that person, his hand might have touched him, and he has mistaken him to the thief. Once he has told him to be the thief, others travelling in the bus took him to be thief, as pickpocketing is very common in crowded buses. The people beat him and handed over him to the police. Sana Parida is innocent; someone else has committed  the crime, but the police arrested him. He is not well dressed, like an educated well-bred person, and is in a poor attire, hence, looks like a poor fellow, and accused of being a thief. Sana Parida has come from his village to Cuttack for seeking job. The police arrested him since the people mistook him to be the pickpocket. Besides, pickpocketing is not non-bailable offence.”

“What are you saying?” the judge said, “Pickpocketing is not non-bailable offence! So what? They should be hanged. Yesterday, I came from my village; I was travelling by town bus from the bus stand to my res, I was pickpocketed five hundred rupees.”

                                                    (Downloaded from internet)

The judge’s remark caused murmur among the lawyers present in the court room. A few chuckled.  The lawyers’ reaction irked the judge. He said, “You are laughing at me. A small crime in the eyes of law can land a man in disastrous situation. Leave my case; I have a job; I draw a monthly salary. Take the case of a poor man; his son is in hospital; he needs money for a major operation. He went to village, sold his property to arrange money for his son’s treatment. He is coming to the hospital by the town bus. The pickpockets stole away his money. He could not pay for his son’s operation, his son died and besides, he lost his property also. Who should we blame for this kind of eventuality?”

The judge adjourned the court. He went to his chamber. He had heard, but reserved his judgement. He would give the order next day.

Mr. Roy called upon Baina and said, “Idiots, you even don’t spare the judges!”

Baina stroked his hair and, with a smirk on his lips, said, “Sir, how can we know? The judges don’t travel in the town bus in their prescribed attire; black coat and gown. How can we distinguish between a a judge and a commoner? Besides, we don’t look at the persons, but their pockets.”

The advocate laughed. “Yes, you idiots are disciples of the great Arjun of Mahabharat; you aim at the eyes of the bird; never look at the leaves, branches or fruits of the tree!”

Mr. Roy entered into the chamber of the judge. He brought out a five hundred rupee note from his pocket and offered to the judge and said, “Sir, take back your money. Those bastards did not know you were a judge. They have pickpocketed you.”

Annoyed, the judge said, “Go away. What is this? Get out with your money.”

The lawyer argued, “Sir, when any theft occurred in your house, you lodge FIR with the police. The police, when they recover the theft property and return the goods, you accept. I am giving you back your money. Why should you think I am bribing?”

He placed a five hundred rupee note on his table and came out.

The next day, in the forenoon, the judge passed order; Sana Parida was released on bail.

*****

A Student

 

                                                (Downloaded from internet)

I was going to my village. My village was more than one hundred and fifty kms from the place where I was working, and I had to change three buses to reach my village. I started early, reached Cuttack at around 9, in the morning. I entered into a restaurant near the bus stop to have my breakfast. I was eating chhole bhature. I had not yet finished, the restaurant boy served me chhenapod, a sweet dish.

I had not ordered Chhenapod, but I would have. I had a sweet tooth, chhenapod looked fresh and alluring in the morning. I was, perhaps, the first customer they were serving after cutting into pieces the sweet pancake, cooked last night. I thought the boys working in this restaurant, perhaps, could guess the taste of the customers, and to increase the sales of the restaurateur, might be serving before the customer asked for it.

I started chhenapod after chhole bhature.

Before I finished chhenapod, the boy placed sweet curd on my table. I had also not ordered sweet curd, though I liked it also. I asked the boy, “I am not ordering, how do you serve yourself, one dish after another?”

The boy indicated a man sitting two or three tables away from me and said, “The gentleman sitting there is ordering for you.” I looked at the man. He bowed his head to wish me. The man had come to the restaurant before I, and was having his breakfast, enjoying the sweet curd. He finished his breakfast and came to me. He sat on the front chair and asked, “Sir, don’t you recognize me?”

I could not. I was trying to locate where I could have met him. Without giving me much time to think, he said, “I was your student.”

I was teaching in a college for two and half years before I entered into an administrative job. I had already left the college for more than fifteen years. The appearance of the boys changed a lot after they entered into a profession and their worldly life. I was trying to remember, but could not. I asked, “What are you doing?”

“Sir, what you once told us we would do, I am doing that. I am a bus conductor.”

I remembered. If the students were doing mischief; irritated, I would scold them by saying, you would become nothing, but bus conductor or amin (land surveyor). I used to say, “When we were students, our parents did not have enough money to spare for our education. With much difficulty we studied with meagre amount our parents could provide. The colleges were in the city, far away from the villages. The number of colleges were also very few. All the students who passed Matriculation could not get seats in the college.  Many good students could not study since the cost of staying in the city and studying in the college were beyond affordability of their parents. Now the colleges have come to the villages. You take your food in your home, walk or ride a cycle from your village to the college. You should take advantage. But your minds are elsewhere, not in studies. You are missing the opportunity. You are destined to be, at best, conductors or amins.”

I said to my former student cum bus conductor, “That was not my purpose. I scolded you since you did not read, but involved in mischief. I wish whatever you may do, you live in peace. One earns to keep living, but one should earn in honest means. Be good human beings, that’s important. You should not have any inferiority complex for the job you are doing.”

I had started sermonizing; a habit I had with me, perhaps, since my teaching days. Old habits had not died.

“No, sir, I don’t mean anything. I was joking. We did not listen to you then, now we realize. Where are you going to?” he asked.

“Going to my village, shall go up to Chandikhole now. From there I shall change a bus.”

 He said, “Then let’s go by my bus. Our bus is going to Balasore.”

My student cum conductor seated me in the conductor’s seat, his seat. He collected fare and issued tickets. He did not accept fare from me. Instead, he presented me with a pack of cigarettes and a match box. He knew I was smoking when I was in the college. Of course, I had not given up the habit.

I had heard this story from a friend. The student of a well-known professor joined Indian Administrative Service (IAS). He was posted as secretary, education department. The professor then was the Director of Public Institutions (DPI). Once, in a meeting, the director who was the former teacher of the secretary, addressed him by his first name. Annoyed, the secretary reprimanded, “You forget, you are speaking to your secretary!” The director immediately corrected himself and said, “Sir…”

The director and the secretary were both well known; two very important persons in the state.

This maybe a rumour. Some persons in the society, out of jealousy, concoct stories about achievers and established personalities; and people, for the same reason, love to believe them. Still, many have this impression; people in administration, particularly in the IAS, are also callous towards love and affection of their subordinates and people below them. They do not understand true feelings.

I believe, had my student been an IAS officer instead of a bus conductor, he would not have behaved as the secretary behaved with his former professor.

I was proud of being a teacher in the college for a few years.

*****

 

 

 

 

A House in Kalinganagar

 

I had a desire to build a house in my village, and settle there after my retirement from government service. I had a plot of land measuring twenty guntha or a little more than three-fourth of an acre in my name by the roadside in my village. I had made a plan of my house in my mind. I would build a small house, there would be garden of flowers in the front. I would plant trees on the backyard, make a small orchard. The orchard would have mango, jackfruit, guava and other trees.  I would dig a pond and do pisciculture. I would eat fish whenever I wished from my pond. There would be banana trees on the ridge of the pond. I might keep some hens and cocks. I would wake up in the morning with birds’ chirping or cock’s crowing.

But, under certain circumstances, I had to part with that plot of land. My father had taken advance from a villager to sell that land to him, and forced me to register the plot in his name. I could not resist. My dreams of a house in my village died.

-2-

I applied for a plot of land meant for middle income group (MIG) people when Bhubaneswar Development Authority advertised to sell plots of land under its Kalinganagar Plotted Development Scheme in 1990-91. I got a plot in the lottery held to allot the applicants. But I did not have the courage to go for building a house. I did not have enough money. I was residing in a rented house in Cuttack. I had already stayed there for fourteen years. We had developed a very friendly family relation with the family of the land owner. My children were small when we rented their house. They grew up, went to the college and completed their education. The house we had rented fourteen years ago became small and inconvenient to accommodate us, with our grown-up children.

I did not want to reside in a government quarter for personal reasons, but when we found difficult to manage in our rented house, I suggested my wife, to shift to the government quarters. A quarter was also lying vacant since the occupant had retired, and gone to his own house at this time. But my wife did not want to shift to the government quarters or to any other house. She told me to build a house in Kalinganagar in our land and we would shift to our house from there. I decided or rather, was compelled to desire to build my own house.

-3-

I wanted a transfer from Cuttack where I was posted, to Bhubaneswar to build my house; but the government did not listen to my request. It was not only painful, but also a costly affair, for a person like me, to stay in Cuttack and build the house in Bhubaneswar. My neighbour, Amerendra Jena and Sandeep came to my rescue. Amerendra Jena belonged to the village, nearby to my uncle’s. I had studied in their village school for six years, till I passed Matriculation. They helped. My son was then residing in Bhubaneswar. He also looked after.  I did not have any savings. I availed government’s house building loan and also withdrew money from my GPF to construct the house. The built-up area of the house was 950 in a plot of 2400 square feet, leaving the remaining 1450 square feet unused.

I came to reside permanently in this house from August 1, 2012. It pained me when I decided to live here. I had a dream of building a house in a land of twenty guntha, amidst garden, orchard and a pond, but here I had to live in a land of less than one and half guntha. The first day, being tired, I went to bed soon. Birds’ chirping woke me up early. I sat on the balcony. I saw two mongooses moving in my front plot. I had kept one mongoose when I was a child, in the primary school. It was with me for some years. It went away after a few years and saw it moving in our backyard in the village; but it did not return to me. It was with another mongoose. My elders told, perhaps, our mongoose met a female partner. The two mongooses I saw reminded me of my childhood.

-4-

Kalinganagar did not have many houses by 2012 when I came to stay here. Many people allotted with plots had not built their houses. The park was there, but it was not opened for the public. Once there a report in the newspaper: a few thieves had looted in Jatni and were distributing the booty inside the unused park. The police, on receipt of information from some sources, raided and caught them. I was going for morning walk on the road. Sometimes, I came across jackals rambling near the nursery of the forest department, behind the park. In 2011, I started constructing the house. My son was looking after the construction. He told me when our house was under construction, he sometimes spent the night in the incomplete house. He used to hear jackals howling in the evening as I used to hear in the village in regular intervals after evening. But I had not heard jackals howling after I stayed in Kalinganagar in 2012. One day I met Col. Rao during morning walk. He told he had once happened to see wild elephants on the same spot I saw the jackals. Col. Rao had been living in Kalinganagar a couple of years earlier than I.

-5-

My house, as stated earlier, stood on the plinth area of 950 square feet in the land of 2400 square feet, leaving 1450 square feet unused. A bel tree (aegle marmelos) sprouted and grew up without our noticing it in the backyard. I wanted to cut if off. But my wife resisted and said, “Not good to cut a bel tree; the tree is auspicious). The tree has grown up big, touching the roof of the house and covering substantial area in the backyard. I planted three mango trees and one jackfruit by the side and also a gold mohur (delonix regia) and three bokul (minusops elengi) trees in the front of the house. The trees grew up. Birds visited; their chirping every day woke me up early in the morning. I sat on the balcony and brushed my teeth. The squirrels were climbing up the tree, a crow was sitting on the electric wire. By the time I retired from government service, I had built a library. When I sat on the chair at the table, I looked at the bel tree, its branches touching my window. Sometims, a haladi basant (golden oriole) came to the bel tree and jumped from one branch to the other in the green foliage of the bel tree.

-6-

Fani, the cyclone devastated coastal Odisha on 3^rd May, 2019. The districts of Puri and Khurda were severely affected. There was heavy rainfall and strong wind, the speed of the wind being more than 150 kms per hour. The cyclone uprooted bokul trees, broke the branches of the gold mohur, shredded completely the leaves and branches of the bel tree. The birds and squirrels disappeared. There was power cut, the electric poles and wire being damaged; the outage continued for almost a fortnight.

 -7-

I again planted trees. The trees grew up. The leaves of the bel tree sprouted up. The birds, mongooses and squirrels reappeared. I don’t know whether the birds and squirrels are the same visiting me before the Fani. I hope they are.

******

TALIBAN

 

 

(I had written an article on meeting the challenges of Corona which the daily newspaper, The Prameya published in its editorial page. An old gentleman, aged seventy plus, had heated arguments with me over telephone. This piece, a story is written on his telephonic conversation, published in The Sambad under the title TALIBAN)

Sajay was sitting in the balcony and looking at the road. It did not rain for the last two days, though it was rainy season. The afternoon sun was sliding behind the distant mountain. The authorities had opened the park for the last two days, but people were still afraid of going to the park. There was fear in the air. Covid infection, in its second wave, was receding as the government statistics said, in the state and the country, but the number of corona infection and casualty did not reduce, as expected, in Khurda district. There was also talk of the third wave coming. The government had assured the people of its preparedness to meet the challenges of the third wave, if it came. Since the denizens did not go to the park, they did their walk on the road or on the rooftop, in the morning or in the afternoon. Most of the people who were going on the road by his house were known to Sanjay. They looked at him sitting in the balcony, and few of them also talked and exchanged pleasantries with him.

A gentlemen rang him up. He picked up the call. The gentleman said, “I read your article published today in the newspaper.

That day, Sanjay’s article on meeting the challenges of Corona was published. Many known and unknown persons had been telephoning him and appreciating the article since the morning. A few readers were also discussing on the issue on the points raised in the article. Sanjay said, “Thank you! Where are you calling from?”

(Meeting the Challenges of Corona)

The gentleman said, “Speaking from Cuttack, but why are you dragging the God into your article?”

The article criticized against ringing bells, worshipping Corona as a Goddess, performing Jajna or any kind of religious rituals to ward off the Corona virus. Sanjay said, “The purpose of the article is not to believe in superstitions like worshipping Corona as a Goddess, but to have faith in science, in doctors, in heath workers. The scientists and doctors will drive out corona, not any kind of religious rituals or occult practices.”

“It’s okay. But why did you write not to have faith in God?” the gentleman asked. He seemed agitated.

To argue against superstition, and in support of science, Sanjay, in his article, had quoted Dr Rieux of the famous novel The Plague of Albert Camus. Dr Rieux said at one place in the novel, since the order of the world is shaped by death, it would be right not to believe in God. Rather, we should struggle with all our might against death without raising our eyes towards the heaven where the He sits in silence.

“Yes, I have quoted Alber Camus, from his novel, The Plague. Albert Camus has won Nobel Prize for literature,” Sanjay said.

The gentleman said, “So what, if he has won Nobel prize? Knowledge of a man is not complete. He belongs to the western world. He may be wise and learned, but he does not have any idea on Hinduism, does not know Sanatan Hindu Dharma. He does not understand the God.”

“By the way, what’s your age?” asked Sanjay.

“I am at seventy-three.”

Sanjay said, “I am sixty-two. At this age of ours, I can’t change your views, nor can you mine. Better we should not argue. If you don’t like the article, just throw it away. You must be reading good as well as bad writings. It’s a bad story for you.”

“No, I can’t simply throw it away. It’s a nice write up, your arguments are convincing,” said the gentleman.

Sanjay said, “You contradict yourself. You say it’s a nice write up and on the other hand, you question why I should drag the God into it. The article is on the God and Death, beliefs and science, of course, with ref to Corona.”

“The article does not have any impact on me, but it may influence the common man,” said the gentleman.

The arguments of the gentleman irritated Sanjay. “I can’t help you. I write what I believe. I desire to influence the people by my writings. If my writings have any impact on the people, I consider, I am successful in my effort,” he said.

The gentleman was furious. He shouted, “No, you can’t write like this. I hate the talibans. But I think now, we need talibans in our religion to protect our culture and religion, to keep faith of the people in Hinduism. Hinduism should have talibans of its own.”

Strong wind blew. Black clouds gathered in the sky. The light went out. Sanjaya came from the balcony to his room. He closed the door. He cut off the phone.

Talibans had already formed government in Afghanistan. The Taliban government had declared there would be no democratic rule in Afghanistan. Saria law would be in force, the women could not come out open without covering their face with burkha. The Talibans had killed a woman for wearing skin fitting dress. They cut off the hands for alleged crimes, beheaded accused, without a hearing in the court.

There was rain and storm outside the house. There was no current; the room was dark. He did not know when the power would be restored and he would see the light. Sanjay was sitting alone in the dark.

                           *****

 

 

 

A Ghost at Afternoon

 

(Book release at Senior Citizens' Forum, K-8, Kalinganagar, Bhubaneswar)

‘Aparanhara Bhuta’, published in 1999, was my first collection of stories. In fact, it should have been my second book. It was not easy to publish a book then, in 1990s, as it is today. I had given fifteen stories to a publisher in Cuttack for a book. The traditional Cuttack publishers take a long time to publish. In the meantime, the publisher of ‘Nijaswa Prakashan’ of Puri evinced interest in publishing one book of mine, and requested to give him a few stories. He published the book ‘Aparahnara Bhuta’ before the Cuttack publisher did, and made this my first book of stories.

The Sunday magazine of The Sambad had published my story ‘Kalibudhi’ (Black Woman). In the nineties of the last century, the television did not have so many entertainment channels, mobile phones were not in common use. One of the major sources of entertainment was still reading books and magazines. People who liked a story used to write letters to the author. I received a number of letters for the story Kalibudhi, and one of the letters was from Dr. Prafulla Kumar Rath.

He appreciated the story, but suggested, since the story was on a beggar woman and the woman was of the lowest strata in the society, uneducated and uncouth, the language of the story should have been the language spoken by them. Of course, the story was on a beggar woman. A young officer every day met the woman on the street when he went to the office. She cleaned the street and the shop fronts, and begged or demanded something in return, though no one had told or employed her to do the job. One day she died. I replied to Dr. Rath, though the story was on the beggar woman, but it was narrated by the officer, an educated man; hence the language of the story was chaste Odia as spoken by the educated class. The matter rested there.

In 1998, I attended a story workshop organized by NBT in Rourkela. I met there for the first time Dr. Prafulla Kumar Rath who had gone to Rourkela to participate in the book fair organized by NBT. I came to learn there he had a publishing unit called Nijaswa Prakasan. He suggested me to publish my book, and I readily agreed. I had been writing for the last seven or eight years, but had not published a book.

I was staying in Cuttack and Dr Rath was in Puri. I was working for the government and he was teaching in a government college. We are far away from each other, a distance of nearly hundred kilometers, having little communication between the two of us. Neither he nor I had the time or scope in my case, to proof-read. He published the book without taking much time, but a lot of printing errors remained. The errors in the book dampened joy of having my first book in print.

(The audience)

Despite clumsy printing and poor get up, the book sold. After two /three years, I happened to meet a poet-friend. He told he was reading my stories and showed me the book. The book he showed me was a paperback, but the original book was hard bound. The publisher had published a paperback edition without my knowledge. The book had been out of print for many years.

I wanted to reprint the book and publish the second edition. The book had only twelve stories, containing eighty-six pages. I added three stories and made the book of one hundred- and sixty-pages. The original twelve stories were written before 1999 and the three stories added now were of 2020. So, a reader can have taste of the writings of my youth, and of mature days, and compare between the early and later writings.  Thanks to Paresh Patnaik and shalandi.books for publishing the second edition.

(The Book)

There is an impression and also the writers and publishers allege; books, particularly Odia books are not sold; the number of readers in Odia is decreasing. It’s a fact; sale of Odia books has declined, but reading habit has not gone away. The Odias, educated in English medium schools, prefer to read books in English. If a person has taste for literature, he will read both in his mother tongue as well as in English. I believe, if a reader knows about a book and the book is available easily, he will buy the book and read. He will definitely enjoy reading a book in his mother tongue. The reader who loves books also wants to keep the books in his home or personal library.

All the copies of Aparahnara Bhuta, displayed at the time of its release, were sold out; had we more books on the day, a few more copies would have been sold also. A few readers had to return disappointed for the stock exhausted on that day. We did not expect so many copies would be sold.

The book was released on 9^th March, 2024 in the Kalyan Mandap field of K-8 under the chair of Girija Prasad Mahapatra, the President of Senior Citizens’ Forum, in its event of Sahityacharcha. Swaraj Misra, writer and columnist and Paresh Patnaik, writer spoke on ‘Writings, Writers and Readers.’ Dasarathi Sahoo, the secretary welcomed and introduced the guests.

*****

Some Truths, A Few Stories

 

 

(Some Truths, A Few Stories)

I have witnessed and suffered a number of cyclones; like Titli, Phailin, Huhhud, Fani or Amphan. The first cyclone I experienced when I was in Class VIII, in 1971. I was thirteen; staying in my maternal uncle’s house, and studying in their village school. On 29^th October, I was sleeping after my night meal. My uncle woke me up. Severe storm lashed, the old house of mud and thatch was shaking. He took me to a small thatched two roomed house he had built the same year; one room was for the kitchen and the other used for the guests, and my study. Then all the villagers of my uncle’s village had mud walls and thatched house except Jagabandhu. Jagabandhu was relatively rich in the village; he had a house of bricks and cement with tin roof. The strong wind had flown away his tin roof; the first man who suffered loss in the cyclone. He along with his family had already taken shelter in my study room. In the morning, I saw many houses had been damaged, cows dead and trees uprooted including the lonely banyan tree in the school playground. The long hall, partitioned to accommodate four classes, of our school had also fallen.

The official death toll of persons stood at 7397, but unofficial sources gave the figure much higher. It was a Friday.

(Review of the book in the Sambad)

Twenty-eight years later, in 1999, I was in Cuttack. As a mere coincidence, my daughter was in Class VIII. It was also 29 October and a Friday. This time the government had warned about the imminent cyclone, but people did not heed to the warning. In the morning, the rain had started. I was preparing to go to the office. The rain increased. I waited. The rain took the form of heavy storm. I decided not to go to the office. I changed my office dress to casuals, and sat on the balcony.

I was residing in a concrete building, and had no fear of the cyclone. On the backyard, there were two mango trees, one Jamun (black berry) tree and one simuli (silk cotton) tree. In the night, birds including a few parrots rested in the trees. Their chirping woke me up every day in the early morning. On that day of heavy rains and strong cyclone I watched the trees falling down one by one. It pained me to realize birds would never come to rest, for there would be no trees, and birds’ chirping would no longer wake me up in the early morning.

The official death toll was 9887, besides thousands of cattle died. People say the actual death toll was more than forty thousand. This was called super cyclone.

I had written one piece and captioned ‘aktobarar dui asubha sukrabaar’ (Two Black Fridays of October), which was published in ‘Sambad’.

(Review in the Prameya)

The cyclone Fani hit Odisha on 3^rd May, 2019. It was also a Friday. I had already retired from government service. The people had become conscious after super cyclone of 1999 and heeding to government's warning. In the meantime, they had also witnessed Titli, Phailin, Huhhud. The Government had evacuated people from near the sea coast and low area, and settled them in the temporary shelter houses. The death toll was 64. But power supply had been cut off; electric poles and wiring had been damaged, many trees uprooted in Puri and Bhubaneswar. The government took more than ten days to restore power supply in Bhubaneswar.

I had written my experience of the cyclone, ‘Fani: Sei dasa dina’ (Fani: Those Ten Days) in the magazine, ‘Teera Tarang’.

*****

The full name of Rupa was Ester Rupa Sahu Jyrowa. I asked, “Rupa Sahu seems to be an Odia name, Ester is Christian and Jyrowa seems to have some connection with a tribe. How can you have such a name?”

Rupa said, “My grandfather was an Odia, my grandmother was Assamese. My mother is from Meghalaya. My name contains all of them. We are Christian.”

I asked, “Your husband?”

She said, “He is a Hindu."

Rupa is talkative.  We were returning from Kamakshya temple on the zigzag road of the hills. From the hills, the city of Guwahati looked like a postcard painting. I asked, “Yours was a love marriage?”

She said, “Yes."

I asked, “Didn’t your husband’s parents object?”

Rupa said, “When we knew each other and our friendship grew, my would-be husband told, if his parents would approve, we would proceed further, and marry. One day he invited me for tea to his house. On the first meeting itself, his father agreed, and then we married.”

“What does your father-in-law do?” I asked.

“He is a member of the RSS, now a leader of the BJP.” She replied

 

Normally the members of RSS were staunch believers of Hinduism, believed to be conservative and Hindu fundamentalists. But her father-in-law was broad minded, perhaps, because of the liberal cultural tradition of Assam. Rupa said, “Sir, you are a Hindu, I am Christian and our driver, Rehman is a Muslim. This is real India.”

I added, “You are truly a representative of our pluralistic Indian tradition.”

[From the story, ‘Brahmaputra Bakshare Gangara Pratidhwani’ (Echoes of the Ganga on the Heart of Brhmaputra)]

The book ‘Kichhi Sata Kichhi Gapa’ (Some Truths, A few Stories), published by Shalandi Books contains thirty-six stories. 

*****

Memories are Not to Throw Away

 

                                                      (Memories are Not to Throw Away)

Harihara and his friend were returning by foot to Puri after visiting Chandrabhaga. They came across two/three British sahibs on the way. They stopped them and one of them asked, “Do you swim?” Harihara replied, “Yes, we do, but can’t swim sea or an ocean.” Those were the times of the second world war; the war continued between UK and Germany. Those British soldiers were, perhaps, coast guards, and they mistook Harihar and his friend as German terrorists. Harihar’s friend said, “We are students of Cuttack C.T. School; we had come for a visit to Chandrabhaga.”

India attained independence on the 15^th August, 1947, but the kings of garjat (princely states) felt freedom from the British rule, and behaved like independent countries. They hoisted their own states’ flags, not the tricolour national flag of India. Rajendra Narayan Singhdeo unfurled two flags; one Indian tricolour and the other, the state flag of the Patna kingdom. He announced, “We, the garjat kings of India are now free; we have not yet integrated with India. Lat’s us see what happens next.” 

Harihara was then a teacher in Patnagarh’s Ramai School.

Historiographers are of the view that incidents described in an autobiography can be taken as historical facts if those are buttressed by other historical evidence. Public persons, persons established in the society, such as politicians, ministers, governors or president would not write anything of their lives that the society or the people in general will not approve of. They would not reveal their weakness and wrong deeds. They also tend to write good deeds, sometimes, they write false, to glorify themselves and also try to rationalize anything wrong they had done, and been criticized.

Harihara Misra is a common man, an honest, sincere and an affectionate teacher. In his autobiography, ‘Smruti Ta Nuhen Kebe Phingibaar’ (memories are not to throw away), he has written the life of the common man, his life and time. He has not written anything to show off himself big or a man of high moral standard. He has portrayed the events and personalities he has come across in his life’s journey honestly from the prospective of a common man.

Born in 1922, he was twenty-five when India attained independence. Orphaned in childhood, he was brought up by his maternal grandparents. A man from the garjat area, he studied in Cutack C.T. School with scholarship from the king of the Patna state. He did his intermediate and graduation and D.Ed. as a private candidate. He struggled to set foot and establish him in the society, but has never described his pain, never expressed distress in his memoirs. He was at 89 when he started writing his memoirs, but has written only forty-five years of his life until 1969. He did not want to burden the readers, as he says, making the book voluminous by writing his success story, his happy life.

                                                                  (As I have Experienced)

‘Dihakar Katha’ (As I have experienced), is the memoirs of Raseswari Misra, wife of Harihara. She has studied up to standard four only. She has been brought up in a cultural and educational milieu. They have always guests, for Harihara is a sociable person, and he loves to treat his guests. Besides, they have eight children. On some says, Raseswari has to cook for thirty people. Despite all her busy life, she has never neglected her pursuits of learning. She starts writing poetry at 88, recited poems in literary gatherings; the AIR has also broadcast her poems.

A reader of the books will find the life of the common man in the garjat area, the customs, traditions, culture and beliefs of the garjat people before independence. Written in a simple and lucid style, the books are readable, and are useful for the scholars engaged in research of garjat states.

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