There is Nothing called an End....
I had thought of
beginning this story from the end, but is there something you can call an end?
The thought worried me. Look at the small stream touching our village. It flows
on and joins Ghataprabha. That river too flows on and joins another big river
and goes past Kudalasangama…. Now tell me where the stream ends and the river begins.
It is all a mystery…But let it be. Let us come to the story.
What I am trying to tell you is what my
grandfather told me. He had heard it from his father. So the story actually
belongs to the time of my great grandfather, something that happened when he
was a young boy… I have lost count of the number of times my grandfather has
narrated this story to me. I was just a small child – I hadn’t yet started
attending school—when he told it to me for the first time. He
repeated It several times after when I was in the Kannada school and
again in my high school days
and college days. Whenever I was home for the holidays he would make me sit by
his side and listen to the story. He
made it new each time, by choosing one or the other episode and narrating it in
great detail. It remained in my mind as vivid as something that had happened
before my eyes, its images etched in all their completeness.
* * * * *
The Basavanna
fair in my village lasted for three days. On the last day groups of singers
sang Lavani and gigi songs and there would be tough competitions of questions and
answer in verse. At the end of the competitions the village chief would honour
the winners with silver bangles and cash awards. Our chief was famous throughout
the Sindikurabet region. Though he was just a village chief, he lived like a
junior Desai. During the life of my
great grandfather, Bhujangappagowda, because of old age, transferred power to
Bapugowda, his son by his third and youngest wife. He was past fifty when
Bapugowda was born. Bapugowda was twentyfive years of age when he became the
chief. Bhujangappagowda stayed at home, guiding his son when necessary. His
three wives had died, leaving him alone. The household was managed entirely by
the housemaids.
Meanwhile it
came into Bapugowda’s head that he should sing a song of his own in the
assembly of singers which gathered during the Basavanna fair and offer a riddle
that no one from the villages around would be able to solve. The moment this
idea occurred to him he rushed one of his servants to Belgaum to bring ten
bottles of the Bhringamalaka oil prepared scientifically by Pandit Haribhavu
Bhatkhande, the Royal Vaidya. The maids poured handfuls of this oil on
Bapugowda’s Head and shoulders and rubbed it in hard till his body opened up
like a flower and his drooping head
rested against their bosoms… They left him to soak in the oil for some time and
then poured potfuls of steaming water on his body… pot after pot and wiped away
the oozing sweat again and again…put him on the bed in his room and burnt
incense to keep him warm... Bapugowda would drift into sound sleep. But the moment
he woke up he would start worrying about the song again. The maids on their
part would feed him with boiled milk laced with cardamom, almonds, grapes and
saffron… Gowda would drink the milk offered to him and continue to worry about
the song. But in spite of the care normally reserved for women in confinement,
he could not deliver the song! ‘Oh song!... Come to me. Please come to me’… he
pleaded desperately to the song till he got exhausted. But the song wouldn’t
come…
When Bhujangappagowda saw his son wearing himself
out day after day for
some
unknown reason, he got worried and talked to him: ‘ why son… You seem to
be
pining for something… Have you kept your mind on any of the maids..? Tell me
who she is…I shall arrange her to arrive to our farmhouse…Never bother…I will
give her people a piece of land. That
will be all right’. Baupugowda vehemently denied the suggestion and said it was
nothing of that sort. When Bhujangappagowda insisted on knowing the cause of the worry, Bapugowda ultimately
told him of his desire of the song. Bhujangappagowda laughed loudly but the
unnaturalness of his son’s desire made him worried. ‘Let’s see what we can do’
he said to himself, and talked to his son: ‘Silly boy!…I was worried what it
was. If you like singing so much, I’ll invite a troupe of dancers from Pune. You
can have as much singing as you want, for as many days as you like, to your
heart’s content…but I don’t understand why you want to compose a song yourself,
as the street - singers do’. He tried his best to bring him out of the gloom.
But Bapugowda continued to be unhappy. The idea that he himself should create a
song, sing it at the fair and win the applause of the people obsessed him and
he couldn’t come out of it.
Thus, when Bapugowda continued to be lost in
contemplating on the song, one day, before the sun rose, at the time when the
east turned red… the seed of a song dropped into his mind. Bapugowda joyfully
watered it…Leaves sprouted from it and soon they formed a creeper… The Gowda
took up a pen and wrote out the song. It contained a riddle which went like
this: a bird came flying from the east in the sky, holding a fruit in its beak
and dropped it on the earth. The fruit broke open and the seed it contained
entered the soil. The embryo in the seed sent its roots into the nether world
and its stem into the upper and spread over the entire creation. The stalk that
rose into the sky had twelve branches. Each branch had thirty leaves…half of
these were white and the other half were black. A bird came from darkness and
nursed the white leaves with its milk and breathe life into them . But the bird
came only in alternate fortnights. During the fortnights when the bird didn’t
’t turn up , the white leaves faded and the dark ones laughed in delight and
burst into life… Bapugowda rehearsed the song again and again in full throat .
He sang it to his father and the old man said happily ‘Va...Vah...Shabas;’ and
applauded the song. ‘Take it from me..’ he said, ‘..no one from the ten
villages around would be able to solve the riddle ’. These words of encouragement
were to spell disaster later, but Bapugowda went on rehearsing the song and
readied himself for the battle that was to take place at the Basavanna fair.
* * *
There was a full audience. Most of the troupes from
outside had refrained from attending the meet since they knew that the Gowda
himself was competing and others had no scope. A special chair had been placed
on the raised platform. A drum rested on a small table by its side. Also on the
platform was a stool carrying a silver plate with betel leaves on it. Bapugowda
wearing black shoes, silk trousers and a silk shirt and a silk turban went up
the platform in style. The people felt as though the Peshva Maharaja himself
had appeared before them and burst out with applause. . Ughe! . . . Ughe. . The
Gowda folded his hands stylishly and greeted the gathering and asked them to
observe silence. Then he addressed the audience: ‘…I salute all the people
present here. I have observed strict penance for a whole month…day and night
and have been blessed with a song . There is a riddle in it and if some wise
man solves it I will fall at his feet and dedicate my song to him. If someone
from outside our village does it, I will give up our right to hold such assemblies during the Basavanna fair’. When
Bapugowda made this declaration in the full assembly, the people were struck
with fear as though some heavy object had fallen on them. They looked at each
other in disbelief and said to themselves:
‘…what is this that the Gowda has done! What if some worthless fellow
comes forward and says…look, this is this…this is the solution of your riddle…will
our Gowda fall at his feet and give up his ancient right to hold the
assembly!... No, no. If such a thing happens, the family honour and the honour
of the village will be bundled out. What is this that the Gowda has done!’ Fear crept into the hearts of the people this
and they prayed to their goddess ‘O mother! Mother of all songs! Uddavva of
Udagatti! Our honour depends on you. You alone can make us sink or float’.They
prayed and pledged her offerings. The artists who had come from neighbouring
villages too had similar thoughts. ‘The gowda of this village is like a king
for all of us. He holds these assemblies every year and honours us with gifts
of silver bangles. Let him challenge us with his song if it pleases him, but we
are not going to solve the riddle…even if we can do it’ they decided among
themselves.
Meanwhile the Gowda picked up the drum and started
to sing to beat… As the song spread wave upon wave. . . giya ga. . .gagiya ga
smiles appeared on the faces of the villagers. ‘Mother Uddavva of Udagatti has
preserved our honour. . . the riddle in the Gowda’s song is tight.. there are
no holes in it to pick. They were happy and as the song came to an end they
burst into loud cries of joy. . . Chang
Bolo! . . . Chang Bolo…. The Gowda saw the excitement of the crowd and felt
proud. He looks from side to side and repeated the call he had made earlier: ‘If
there is any one here clever enough to solve the riddle let him come forth and
accept the challenge...’ and seated himself in the chair.
‘Our Gowda has built a riddle as deep as patala and
as high as the sky . who can solve it ?’ The whisper went round among the
people . The troupe from outside stuck to the position they had taken earlier
and remainded quiet . Just when the
people were heaving a sigh of relief that things had gone on smoothly, they
heard a voice from the side of the Kala Basappa temple: ‘Gowdare… you have sung
the song and offered the riddle, that should be enough. There’s no need to
enter into a comepitition. If your challenge comes back to you, you might be in
trouble’. There was a huge turmoil in the audience: ‘Who is that fellow? Can he
not keep his mouth shut?’ the people
said in anger and stretching their necks from where they sat looked in the
direction from which the voice had come. Some hot blooded young men rushed in
the direction of the voice and Gulaganji Chandrya who sat by the side of the
man who had spoken, got up and attacked him… ‘ So , you want to challenge our
Gowda? Do you…?’ But Bapugowda got up from his chair, clapped his hands and
called for peace. ‘Don’t touch him. Bring him here’ he said. Halabara Bhimarayi
went there, separated the two men and brought the stranger to the
platform.
The captured man’s shirt had been torn to pieces in
the scuffle. He had a satchel hanging from his shoulder. It looked as though it
contained something resembling a snake box. Leave alone the villagers, not even
the troupes from outside had ever seen him;
‘ Are you a snkacharmer…?’
‘Yes , Sir I am.’
‘Where do you come from?’
‘From Talakatnal.’
‘Your name?’
‘Talwara Mynudddin?’
‘What?’
‘Talawara Mynuddin, Sir,’
‘Did you say Talawalara Mynuddin? You call yourself
a Talwara and say your name is Mynuddin. How is that possible?’
‘It is so...’ Mynuddin said almost in a whisper.
‘What? What did you say?’ Bapugowda asked him.
‘Let it be.Sir. let us talk about the riddle. Just
withdraw your challenge and I will return to my village.’
‘Khabardar…!’ Gowda shouted at him.
‘Please consider what I have told you’ Mynuddin said
and remained silent.
Bapugowda controlled his anger and said, after some
deliberation, ‘Bhimya, bring him up the platform.’
‘Give up this idea of a challenge, sir’ Mynuddin said but Gowda shot back, ‘If you are
brave enough come up the platform and accept the challenge by picking up the
betel leaves and betelnuts. Otherwise take the road back to your village like a
stray dog…Ha…wait. I have to tell you something more. I had forgotten it. You
can’t just leave like that… You have to tell the audience that you have done
something and ask for their forgiveness, admit that you do not belong anywhere
and there’s no one to care for you… You can’t go without their permission’ he said firmly and stuck to his chair.
Mynuddin again pleaded in utter humility that the Gowda should give up the idea
of the competition. The more Mynuddin pleaded, the more intractable the Gowda
became: ‘ I have already told you…’ he said, ‘There are two choices for you. Choose one of
them. I don’t want to hear your idle talk’. But Mynuddin stood like a pillar
and said nothing. Now some members of the audience intervened… ‘You, son of a
prostitute… this is not your job. Go back to your snake-play. Do as our Gowda
has advised you. Accept that you have been wrong, fold your tail between your
legs and return to your village.’ Amidst the noise that ensued Mynuddin touched
the platform with his forehead saluting it and went up the platform to where
the Gowda was sitting. Standing straight like a rod, he folded his hands to him
and looked straight into his eyes for a moment. A kind of cold crept up the
Gowda’s spine and he shuddered.
Mynuddin turned towards the assembly, folded his
hands in to salute and began to take out something from his bag… People thought
that the bastard would take out a snake box and let the snakes loose in the
crowd. But Mynuddin took out a small drum and the people were stunned into
silence. Mynuddin started beating the drum. . . dhimi dhimi dapananga dhimi
dhimi dipanangaa… The people in the audience were taken totally by surprise and
sat there with their mouths wide open. Bapugowda pulled his feet back, sat
straight and stared at Mynuddin playing on his drum… Mynuddin began his singing
with a long note –a..aa…aaa… People swayed their heads from side to side in
tune with the singing, like serpents swaying their hoods. He elaborated the
opening note filling up the minds of the audience. The concerns of the people
for the honour of the Gowda and the honour of the village melted away like dews
on sunrise. Like children playing on the swing their minds started swinging on
the branches of his tune…and the song followed…
There
is no end
And
there is no beginning,
How then can
there be a middle?
There is no end,
no beginning.
When the
beginning does not follow
The line of no
–beginning
And goes round
and round
How can you put
yourself on this tree?
There is no end
and no beginning.
You turn left
and call
What you see as
east. You see the world
In your own
image, but for a round ball
What is before
and after, right or left?
Ah! There is no
end, no beginning.
Where can you go
floating
In limitless
space? Where can a straight
Line take you? Directions have lost
Direction. There
is no end, no beginning.
Mynuddin’s song flowing in sruti and dancing in laya,
ringing in words and pleasing as song. . . moving in two channels . . . entered
the ears of the music lovers sitting in the audience and the other reaching
their hearts overwhelmed them…Ah!... they recognized the truth and experienced
it! Their minds and senses merged with those of Mynuddin… that snake-charmer
from Talakatnal!
When the singing was over, people felt as though
they were thrown out of the wombs of their mothers once again and they shivered,
the cold piercing their entire bodies to the apices of the hair… When they
recovered from such cold and looked at the stage, there was no sign of
Bapugowda. The chair was empty! Shocked, they ran towards Gowda’s wada. They reached the front door but
had no courage to enter the house. They stopped there and talked among
themselves in whisper. Bhujangappagowda, reclining on a bed in the verandah
shouted, ‘ who is it?’ Some elderly persons familiar with the customs of the
wada entered the house, saluted the senior Gowda and asked whether Bapugowdappa
had returned home. ‘Why, he has gone to the assembly gathered at Basavanna’s
temple and has not returned’, the senior Gowda answered. ‘Is he not there? He
was to sing at the assembly’. Kashappa, halaba Bhimarayi’s grandfather,
narrated what had happened in the assembly in a trembling voice. Gowda thought
his son must have been dejected and gone to the farmhouse. So he said, ‘Bapugowda
will be in the garden house. Don’t disturb him. But first drag that fellow
Mynuddin here. Remove his clothes, tie him to a post and thrash him with a wet
cane. Let Bapugowda see that. It will pacify him… But first find that rascal.
He might escape and run away. Go and bring him here…’. People knew it was the
right thing to do. ‘We left him there. Who knows, he may have escaped? they
were worried… Some of them came out of the wada hurriedly and started running
towards temple…the others followed them.
They went and
looked for Mynuddin in the assembly but he was nowhere to be seen. The elders
among them were shocked and did not know what to do. When they told the people
what the senior Gowda had ordered they too were frightened. ‘What shall we do
now?’ … ‘who knows where he has gone’ said some voices. ‘I know what we should
do’, someone said, ‘we must set the young wrestlers after him. Find Pahilwan
Birajja.’ When Birajja came they told him, ‘Birajja, see where your boys are.
We should search everywhere and capture Mynuddin’. ‘Mynuddin?’ Birajja asked. ‘Yes,
the fellow who sang here. We have to catch him. Bhujangappa Gowda has ordered
that under no circumstances he should be allowed to escape. Decide who should
go towards Talakamal’.
‘ I’ll send
Chigarya there’ Birajja said.
‘ Don’t send him
alone’ the elders said, ‘let someone go with him’.
‘I never send
anyone alone. They should go in pairs’.
After dispatching the young men in all
directions they were confident that Mynuddin would be caught. But Kashappa had
doubts. ‘We have sent the boys all right but remember they are young and do not
have much sense of responsibility. It is better that we too go. Let us get our
carts ready’. Others shared his doubts and accepted his suggestion. ‘ Let us go
in four or five carts. We can’t waste time’ they said… The men went to their
homes, asked their womenfolk to secure the doors and remain inside and joined
the search. The entire village entered into a silent gloom after they left.
Bhujangappagowda kept the doors of the wada open throughout the night and after
every ten minutes came out to see whether there was any news of the people who
had gone after Mynuddin.
********
The young wrestlers ran for nearly two hours along
the roads they chanced to find and stopped exhausted. There was no trace of
Mynuddin. With empty stomachs they walked for another hour or so but with no
result. By that time the carts had caught up with them some boys got on to them
and sat cromped for space. Others turned back and walked towards their village.
They had neither the inclination nor the strength to go ahead. They had had
enough… They wanted to get to some village where they would rest for the night
and continue their journey early next morning. They had abandoned the search
for Mynuddin.
Meanwhile, the carts were moving fast. The oxen were
constant thashed with whips. They drove through the night looking for the
culprit but all that they could see was darkness everywhere. They looked for
him in the villages they passed through but to no avail. They even looked into
the temples lighting matches but how could they find the man who was not there?
At daybreak they stopped near a stream, unyoked oxen, allowed them to quench
their thirst and tied them to the cart pole. The oxen did not touch the fodder
thrown at them for some time. They merely yawned and stretched their necks but
after loosening their bodies by shaking them they started feeding themselves.
Half an hour before daybreak, two of the carts
approached Talakatnal. As they entered the village they saw a small group of
people who had come out to answer the call of nature with potfuls of water in
their hands. As the visitors were preparing to ask them about the where about
of Mynuddin some young men jumped out of the carts with sticks in their hands.
The villagers mistook them to be robbers and ran away in fear. When the men
with the carts followed them they increased their speed. Realizing it was no
use following them, the visitors entered the village. They stopped near the
village office, unyoked their oxen, tied them to the cart poles and sat on the
platform outside the office. Some old men coughing after having a cup of tea at
a teashop saw them and asked, ‘Where do you come from? Who do you want to see?’
Kashappa made a sign to the others to
keep quiet and talked to the old men:
‘Where does Talawar Mynuddin live here?’
‘Did you say Talawara Mynuddin?’ one of the old men
asked, surprised.
The
old men looked at each other and one of them said, ‘There is a person called
Talawara Yalla here…there is no one called Mynuddin’. Someone else added, ‘No
Muslim family lives here’. ‘Not only in our village, Kaka, but the neighbouring
villages, Khandaratti and Kaparatti also…’.
‘We
are not sure of Kaparatti, though’, some other person added. A discussion
followed. Kashappa broke in and said, ‘he said he is from this village…He is a snake
charmer and sings excellent lavani
and gigi songs. When he starts
beating his drum, people sway their heads as snakes do when they hear the Pungi’. To this the old man who had
spoken reacted strongly. ‘Is this a big city? There are only fifty houses here
and how can people manage without knowing each other? You will find no Muslims
not only in this village but in all the neighboring villages’. They finished
what they wanted to say and left. Kashappa sent two young men round the village
to make enquiries and they came back and told him that they had seen Kumkum
marks on the thresholds of all the houses in the village. The men with the
carts were now convinced that the villagers had told them the truth and decided
to go back to their village.
As they reached their village, they got the news
that Bapugowda was not found even in the garden house and there was no news of
him. Who knows, they said to themselves, where the flood of Mynuddin’s music
had carried him! When Bhujangappagowda realized that his son had deserted home
and village he had let out a long cry and fallen from his bed and lost
consciousness. He recovered after they sprinkled water on his face and made him
smell a crushed onion. Ever since, he had been crying for his son, they said,
‘Bapu’ ‘Bapu…’ ‘Child, who will now carry the responsibility of our Goudki?’
We can’t see him suffer like this. Our stomachs burn and tears flow from our
eyes… the people said and and gave vent
to their sorrow. The people who had returned with their carts said, ‘We had our suspicions yesterday itself. But
the Gowda raised a storm about Mynuddin and we could not know for sure whether
Bapugowda was in the garden house or not . . . he must have gone away after we
left. And all this because of Mynuddin’. They too suffered.
Bhujangappagowda sent a message to the Desaii of
sindikuarabet and asked him to send some horsemen. When they came he gave his
own horses and money and ordered them to go in all directions and find
Bapugowda… Several men were also sent on foot with their hands full of money in
search of Bapugowda. The horsemen and the foot soldiers travelled all over the
land for six months and searched every nook and corner and made sure that no
unidentified corpses were found in the wells and lakes of the surrounding
villages. They came back and reported that they could not find Bapugowda
anywhere. They voiced their suspicion that he may have gone to some other
country. They had also tried to find Mynuddin but failed. Nobody knew any
singer by the name of Mynuiddin.
Bhujangappagowda lived for three and a half years
after these events. Day and night he would sit calling on his missing son,
hoping against hope that he would see his son’s face before death came to him…
The year after the tragedy took place, people debated whether the singing
contest should be held on the third day of the Basavanna fair. They went to the
Gowda for advice. ‘Let the event be held
as usual’ the Gowda said. When people reminded him of Bapugowda’s declaration
that he would give up the right to hold the assembly, the Gowda shot back and
said, ‘I know…but who has come up to claim the right? The question would arise
if somebody does that. Don’t you know that those defeated in battle fight again
and win back what they have lost? Let the assembly meet. Bapugowda will come
back and nail all lies by producing a riddle that no one would be able to
solve. I am sure he will be here… If that rascal Mynuddin returns capture him
and bring him here. Don’t repeat last year’s mistake’. People waited eagerly
for Bapugowda till sunset and then declared the closure of the meet. Even after
this Bhujangappagowda clung to the hope that Bapugowda would return one day.
But when year after year passed his bundle of hopes became smaller and smaller.
After the third annual fair was over,
deciding that it was no use waiting any more for his son, and sensing he would
not live much longer, Bhujangappa wrote a letter to Gulabasar Math and sent it
with a servant. He had written in it that he would donate all his property to
the Math. Gulabasar Math was a Virakta Math, owning extensive property. The
specialty of this Math was that in ten acres of its land it had grown
Gulabasara plants. The flowers of these plants have no fragrance. Normally they
grow knee high but in the Math land they grew much higher,to the hight of
thies! There is an Isvara temple in the Math. The Linga there is head high. The
Swami worships it twice every day. He offers white Gulabasara flowers to the
Linga in the mornings and red ones in the evening. Seven to eight female
servants are employed to pick these flowers from morning to evening. The Swami
must have basketfuls of these flowers when he sits down to worship the Linga.
Two junior swamis help their Master by filling two big silver pot with these
flowers and keeping up a continuous supply throughout the Puja. The Swami would
pour these fragrance less flowers on the Linga till it was totally buried under
the flowers. The devotees who visited the Math would be given the gifts of
these flowers.
The swami arrived at the wada on
Makarasankranti with his entourage… The aged Bhujangappagowda had asked the
Manager of Sindikurabet Desai to be present. Gowda made over his entire
property and placed the document with seal and signature at the feet of the
Swami with a request: ‘Father… if at any time in the future, my son Bapusaheb
or any of his children return Sri Math should welcome them and offer them help
and support. This is my prayer to you. Similarly, if Mynuddin who has sent my
son into exile or any of his children come to your notice, they should be
captured and hanged. That would bring peace to my soul’. The Swami heard his request and said, ‘So be
it…’.
Three months after this, on the eve of
the New Year’s day, Bhujangappagowda joined Shiva’s feet. Six months later,
news came that Bapugowda was somewhere in the northern parts of India…that he
had married a Christian girl in Mumbai and had risen high in the service of the
Company Sarkar. But neither Bapugowda nor any of his children have returned to
our village so far. And from the year Bhujangappagowda died, the singers meet
held on the third day of the Basavanna fair has also been cancelled.
Raghavendra
Patil
Translated
from Kannada by Dr.G.S.Amur
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