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’.

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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. 

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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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