When young Dasu decided to unleash his tongue
On the windward side of the green mountains of the Sylhet district
was Dasu’s village. Following the motorable road connecting the highway to
Dasu’s Dharmanagar village, one had to take a north-facing right turn to enter
his ancestral home. Back in 1930s houses were anything but matchboxes that we
live in today. When one talked about his house, that too in the countryside of
Bangladesh, he meant a sprawling area with elaborate thriving space even for
the smallest herbs.
The first block included
a phiri (a barren land for children
to play) on the right and a palm grove on the left. Crossing this, was the Kachari Bari, which was used by Dasu’s
father as an Ayurvedic dispensary. Guests and travellers, who boarded in such
households quite often, also put up here. On a regular day, the patients and
outsiders were welcome till that portion. Because next block was dol shala. Here all the religious
ceremonies took place. And only during festivals, the outsiders could step in
and become a part of the festivity. A mighty Amloki tree looked over this area from centre and Keya shrubs stood hand in hand creating
a circle to preserve the serendipity associated to this space. Then came Gopat ; the location for today’s
anecdote from Dasu’s early boyhood. Gopat
happened to be a pathway exclusively meant for cattle. This area was prone to
waterlogging and flooding in monsoon. So it turned into a muddy bog laden with
cattle fodder, urine and excreta… a fun place for children to dunk in, get
dirty and create all sorts of nuisance.
In those days, schooling did not start before the boy turned
five. So once he could sneak out of the innermost tier of the house, he was not
called for till the lunchtime. That monsoon morning, Dasu and Hiru decided to
cease the day and indulge in forbidden thrill of taking some wholesome splashes
in the Gopat. But as they say, man
proposes and God disposes! While they were filling their cups of innocent pleasure,
with other Garoan boys (the
adolescent shepherds), Dasu’s father, who had a late start that day, overheard
cries of frolic from his worship area in Dol
Shala.
An otherwise calm man, quite amicable to children, Dasu’s
father, however, wasn’t in his best mood on that day. Unfortunately, Dasu and his cousin neither had any clue of
Mashoi Da’s (Dasu’s father disciples called him by that name) presence nor were
they aware of his current temperament.
At first he couldn’t believe that his son and nephew were a
party to that boisterous gang. He walked few steps closer to the spot, to
confirm his apprehension. Then the family-head, seething with anger, tramped to
Kachari Bari and delegated a couple of his disciples to fetch the boys from the
puddle. Without much ado, they jumped into action and in no time brought the
jostling kids to their reverent Mashoi Da. Inexperienced of his father’s wrath,
Dasu continued expressing his dissatisfaction by mumbling and grumbling and
trying to free himself from the clutches of his father’s disciples. This
infuriated his father all the more. And he summoned his disciples to fasten his
son along with Hiru against a pala (a
pillar) of the Kachari Bari. Nandalal,
the underdog, grabbed this opportunity to impress his Mashoi Da. He ran to the
Garoan lads, snatched a rope from them and tied his best knot so that the
little imps could not even show a wriggle.
Dasu was not the kind who would resort to silent submission.
To protest against his father’s punishment he came up with this bright idea of
using his tongue. Out came… “ Shala…
Pungir puth…” and many such words that the Garoans applied on their errant
cattle. Those were invariably directed towards his father’s disciples,
especially Nandalal. But naïve little Dasu was not aware that his father was
still within the auditory range. Mashoi Da was walking away. But these words
uttered by his son made him stop and turn around. Dasu could see his father’s
face turn red. He was fuming through his nose. He rubbed his hands and Nandalal
handed him a singla (a cane stick).
In those days, spanking was legitimate. And after hearing
Dasu’s prolific vocabulary, his Sanskrit Scholar of a father, could not help
his barometer from breaking the boiling point.
It was lunchtime. Dasu’s grandma, like every other day came
out on her prowl to huddle up the children and take them to the kitchen. It was
only then that she found Dasu and Hiru, still tied to the pala, panting and drooping in pain. She loosened the knot
immediately and tugged them into a warm embrace while weeping and murmuring
prayers.
Dasu’s mother was called
upon. She hustled in response; wobbling,
trembling and gasping for breath as Durga would be born that autumn. A child
was hanging from her neck and clinging to her waist. This one wasn’t hers
though. She stood sheepishly in front of her mother-in-law, with her eyes fixed
on the matriarch’s toenail. Her son and Hiru were still hiding behind their
grandmother, peeping out curiously to watch the turn of events. Poor lady! She
was feeling so numb that even pulling her son to her in order to check his
wounds did not occur to her. Even if that had occurred to her, she couldn’t
because that would violate the hierarchy of the household.
It was a belief that
a child, especially a boy-child, till the age of five was an image of God. In
many cases, he remained so to his mother even when he had become an adult. But
someone had to be blamed for the fiasco. Hence Dasu’s mother. She was not
entitled to any such privilege. And as always, she had to bear the final brunt.
* Image courtesy: Google Image
