It was very hot and sunny when they got to the river. The government office on the river bank was closed and there was no one in sight. Because it was low tide, the black mud of the river bed was exposed. The odour of decaying matter hung heavy in the air. Nilu Nayak and his group sat down to wait for the boatmen to arrive.
Sometime later, three men came up to them. One carried a fishing net wrapped about a stick on his shoulder and another, who was quite old, carried a long pole. They seemed used to seeing groups of people carrying their belongings on their heads. ‘Which village? Where are you headed? Who’s your god?’ the old man asked.
‘We’re from Adolshi village carrying our Ramnath. We don’t know where to go. We need to cross the river,’ Nilu explained.
‘The boatmen and fishermen helped many people in the past. Took them as far as Shinvesar and Canara and Malabar. But it’s too dangerous nowadays. A boat that sailed towards Canara two weeks ago hasn’t come back yet. The women are all waiting for their men to return. The Arabs loot the boats there and the white-skinned foreigners beat them up here. No one wants to take his boat out any more.’
‘What should we do then?’
‘There’s great unrest in the villages in Sashti, just across the river. Maybe you should cross the river and climb the Sankhval hillock. You can descend into Isorshi village. They say that many boats take the sea route from there.’
‘Is it very far?’
‘No. You’ll get there by evening if you walk fast.’
‘Is there a ferry boat to cross the river?’
‘Yes. It’ll come soon.’
The boatman who ferried them across knew the names of all the villages along the coast, right from Majali and Mirjan to Mangalore. He told them to head for the sea from Isorshi and get back to the coast at Agod. ‘Some large-hearted villagers there will certainly help you and give you shelter in their village,’ he said.
As they alighted at Kutthal and set off for the Sankhval hillock, they passed the site where the Mangesh temple once stood. Broken stone slabs and wooden beams were scattered on all sides. There was an eerie calm in the village. Everyone spoke in hushed voices, women drew water at the well in silence. The farmers didn’t shout at the oxen drawing the plough. A wayfarer they encountered at the foot of the hillock described to them how the temple was destroyed.
Some hundred soldiers gathered on the hillock late one evening. They set fire to a huge kadam tree and the leaping flames cast red shadows all around. The soldiers descended on the village the next morning. Harihar Kosambi, accompanied by some Brahmins and farmhands rushed to the temple, but the sight of that ferocious mob on horseback waving naked swords, was too much for the Brahmins. They ran away.
As the soldiers rode towards the temple, Kosambi picked up the idol and gave it to a farmhand telling him to carry it away. Suddenly he heard Kapil, the sacred cow worshipped through the ages along with the deity, lowing in alarm. Kosambi rushed to the spot and saw a soldier raise his sword to kill the cow. Kosambi brought his club down forcefully on the soldier’s head. The other soldiers pounced on Kosambi and struck him dead. They killed the cow and tossed its entrails as well as Kosambi’s body into the temple tank.
It was twilight by the time Nilu Nayak and his group reached Isorshi village which lay in the midst of a thick forest. A member of the Nayak community let them stay in his house that night. The other Nayaks gave them rice and set up a hearth where they could cook a meal. Early the next morning they went to the beach carrying a large, ripe jackfruit which had been given to them by their hosts and hired a sail boat for twelve xerafins to take them to Agod.
The sails were unfurled and the boat left the land. Everyone was silent. Even the children seemed overawed by the situation. Suddenly, Murari’s wife Kashi burst into tears. Mhablu’s wife Dulu stared at her with tears in her own eyes. Murari’s eyes were wet, too. Nilu realized that everyone on the boat was on the verge of tears. He didn’t know what to say to them. He was taking them to some unknown land, but he planned to return home.
The boatman, Bali, had seen others in similar situations many times, yet the inconsolable grief of a people who were leaving their homeland forever never failed to upset him. He furled the sail and bound it to the mast. Dipping a bamboo pole into the depths of the sea, he said, ‘This is the final trip. We will not set out to sea again. The Chaitra month is almost here. Winds and storms are taking root in the ocean. Look over there, black clouds hovering like bees where the sea meets the sky. No more coming, no more going after this. Waves, as high as palm trees will wash away the shore…’
The sun shone down fiercely and steam seemed to rise from the heated ocean. Mothers drew their saris over their children’s heads to shield them from the sun. Nilu Nayak had grown old, but he had never exerted himself. He had lived amidst cool orchards and hired labourers to work in his fields, but now his face was flushed and swollen.
They ate the ripe jackfruit that afternoon and drank from a pot of water they had brought along. One of the boatmen advised them to get off at the Agod beach and walk along the shore to a nearby village where they would find Konkani people from the Nayak community.
When the group crossed the sandy strip and climbed the incline, they were met by an angry crowd brandishing sticks and clubs. ‘Who are you? Where have you come from? How did you enter our village without permission?’ they asked.
‘We’re Nayaks from Adolshi village in the Tiswadi region. We came by sea and have just stepped into your village. There’s great unrest in the area where we lived, we couldn’t stay there with our gods. We seek shelter in your village,’ Nilu Nayak explained.
‘You can’t stay here. No outsider will prosper on this land. No outsider might strike a spade into this earth,’ one of the villagers declared.
‘But we belong to the Nayak community. We’re Khatris…’
‘A Nayak family came here from the Sashti region last month. They roamed freely in the village and worshipped in our temple. Later, we realized that they were converts, who had fled Goa and were posing as Konkani Nayaks. We beat them up and drove them away.’
‘But we are not like them! We’ve passed through great danger and come to this place.’
‘You may not settle in this village. Stay the night on someone’s porch. The villagers will give you some rice and you can cook a meal.’
They stayed in the large shed adjoining someone’s house. The villagers gathered a measure of rice from each household and they cooked a large pot of payz on a makeshift hearth. They ate the payz with some salted mango. Mhablu’s son Shambhu, who had remained hungry in his sister Vitha’s home, kept thinking of her all the time. Bai, you asked me to remain faithful to our gods and to our faith … See, I do so now!
They set off quietly the next morning. Nilu Nayak’s knees were aching, his body was heavy and his eyes were bloodshot, yet he tramped along behind them. He yearned to say that he would not come further, that they should proceed without him, but he feared that they might drop the gods and flop down right there in dismay.
The sun was overhead by the time they got to Palolem, and they were very hungry. On one side was a chain of hillocks, on the other was the ocean’s roar. In between was a cool, picturesque village with its coconut-laden palms. God has created so much land, these parts are teeming with Nature’s abundance, surely we can set down our gods here and rest our bodies. Though they were weighed down with worry, fear and despair, a little spark of hope drew them forward, perhaps the people in the next village would offer support.
They dropped their bundles and sat down to rest. There were four palm trees close by, one of which was short and squat and laden with nuts. They had eaten only payz the previous night, and it was well into the afternoon now. Murari’s son, Babuni, slithered up a tree and threw some ten or twelve coconuts down.
‘What are you doing? We mustn’t rob someone’s coconuts like this…’ Nilu Nayak called out fearfully.
‘There’s no sin if we eat the fruit
where it has fallen, right under that tree,’ Mhablu argued, and Nilu said no more.
They cut open the coconuts and drank the water and ate the kernel, tossing the empty shells under the tree. Just then, a tall, well-built man with a big moustache came up to them. ‘I saw you plucking the nuts, but I waited for you to slake your thirst and hunger. You have robbed us and eaten stolen fruit even as you stepped into our village. Pick up your gods and move out at once. If you halt anywhere, I’ll cut off your legs!’ he thundered.
A few more men stood menacingly on one side. The wayfarers quickly picked up their bundles and trudged along without looking to the left or to the right till, at last, they reached Kolamba. This was a cool, shady region where the earth was moist and water was plentiful. It was the month of Chaitra, yet the furrows in the fields were full of water.
The Nayaks of Adolshi requested permission to settle in these parts. The villagers replied, ‘We take no step without consulting our gods. Lord Veerpurus is a powerful deity. We must shower consecrated rice on the jalmi till he is possessed by the spirit of Lord Veerpurus and ask him what we should do’.
That night the spirit of the deity entered the body of Soyru, the temple jalmi. He began to sway as the drums beat softly and then he sprang to his feet. The villagers flung grains of rice on him as he pranced about in a trance. ‘Strangers from some unknown regions want to settle here. What do you say?’ the villagers asked.
‘Who are they? What caste? What is the bloodline that they have descended from? Without all these answers, they may not stay,’ the spirit declared.
‘We’re Nayaks from Adolshi,’ Nilu said.
‘Where’s the proof?’
‘Our tongues speak the truth. That’s our only proof.’
‘Not enough. When they laid the foundation of your village temple, the identification stone was buried on the right side. There are five metal coins under that stone. Fetch them. One of those coins will trace your ancestry.’
‘We can’t do that, deva,’ Mhablu said. ‘They’ve destroyed the temple and forced us to flee.’
‘Who is the deity that you bring?’
‘Our gramdev. Lord Ramnath.’
‘You will have to set up a new village for your gramdev. You can worship two kuldevs in one village, but not two gramdevs. That will lead to violence and bloodshed!’
Soyru began to come out of the trance. The Mirashi sprinkled water on him and broke a coconut at his feet. Everyone was quiet, but the villagers seemed satisfied by what the spirit had decreed.
Nilu Nayak and his party spent the night in a courtyard and set off the next morning for Pansul village. Farmers stopped ploughing their fields and those who had gone into the forest rushed back when they saw this band, with their bundles on their heads, approach their village. People came out of their homes and a large crowd of belligerent villagers blocked their way. ‘How did you enter our village without permission? How did you bring your gods into our village? Go back!’ They asked the same set of questions.
Nilu Nayak was furious. ‘Gods are gods. These are not devils that might attack you! We are wayfarers who have been turned out of our village and our homes. What kind of people are you if you have no sympathy, no kindness for us? You are just showing anger and hostility,’ he declared.
‘If you came as guests we would welcome you. But you outsiders will strike your spades into the ground and settle on our land. Your plan is to set up a village here for your gods!’
‘We’re exhausted. Show us the way to some town,’ Murari beseeched.
‘You can go to Shinvesar. Cut through that grove and you’ll reach the Talpan river. Cross it and then move on.’
They set off in the direction of the Talpan river but before long, they were so exhausted that they flopped down in the shade of a tree. They spent the whole evening sprawled amidst their baskets and bundles and the women lit a fire and cooked some rice. The smoke drew the attention of two fishermen who came up to them with a basket of mackerel. ‘Apply salt and roast this fish in the embers. We’ll try to help you,’ they said.
‘The village deity is with us … see that red silk bundle. We cannot eat fish till the Lord is set down at some new site,’ Nilu Nayak explained.
The fishermen’s hearts were filled with devotion. They then returned with a large red pumpkin which the women cooked with the gruel. The fishermen took the group across the river in their boat early the next morning and carried their belongings on their heads.
‘We don’t want any money from you. We feel that we’ve lent a shoulder to the Lord’s palanquin … helped some deity from some distant land.’
The wayfarers were so tired that they just wanted to collapse on the ground. Yet they trudged on with their load, weeping softly when they were overcome with memories of the land they had left behind. When they got to the temple of Parashuram, they dropped their bundles and sat down. Two men, who noticed the red silk bundle bearing the deity slung on a low branch, came up to them. ‘Who are you? Where are you from?’ they asked.
‘We’re Nayaks of the Khatri community of Adolshi village. We’ve come here with our gods.’
A tall man, with broad shoulders and large arms stood close by. His skin was the colour of wheat, but his eyes were bloodshot and angry. ‘Cowards! You have all run away at the slightest hint of danger – that too with your gods on your heads! Couldn’t you stand there and fight for your village?’
The group of helpless people cowered silently. Nilu Nayak’s gentle personality was at odds with the harsh behaviour of the people they kept meeting every day, so he was a broken man.
‘These people won’t let you stay in this village,’ the stranger said, as he stood leaning against a pillar with his eyes shut. The children, who should have been dancing and playing about, lay quietly in their parents’ arms or were sprawled listlessly amidst the baskets and bundles. They must have been hungry and thirsty and tired. Or perhaps they sensed the sheer hopelessness of the situation they were in.
‘Where are you from? Which village?’ Nilu Nayak asked hesitantly after a while.
The man stared at Nilu intently. ‘Majale. Protected by Lord Ramnath. Beyond the slope of the Pavse Ghats,’ he said.
‘Are there any fields that lie fallow in your village?’ Mhablu asked hopefully.
‘Are our limbs broken? Why should our fields lie fallow?’ the stranger snapped.
‘Let us come to your village. All we need is a place to rest, just for some time,’ Nilu Nayak pleaded.
The man remained silent for a while.
‘Who’s your family deity?’
‘Lord Ramnath.’
‘And your village deity?’
‘Lord Ramnath.’
‘Toss your gods into some lake and come with me then.’
‘Why do you say that? We left our homes and our village to save our gods. That’s why we take all this trouble.’
‘What use are gods that give so much trouble to their devotees?’ he murmured. ‘You will have to set up a new village for your gods. Or you’ll have to forsake them and settle somewhere.’
‘What are you trying to say? We don’t understand.’
‘You can’t have two kings in a kingdom. There cannot be two deities in a temple. Anyway, we’ll see what happens when we get to Majale. Come with me.’
The group was enthused by his words. They picked up their belongings and followed him silently. The sunlight had mellowed by the time they walked down the slopes of the Pavsa Ghat and reached Majale.
Seven gaonkars belonging to the Pawar community and six Nayaks formed the thirteen members of the gaonkari system in the village. Nilu, Murari and Mhablu squatted on the ground on one side as the gaonkars debated amongst themselves. Naga Bhat, who performed all the priestly duties in the gramdev temple, was also seated there.
‘There’s no dearth of farmland in this village. You can till the soil and grow enough to satisfy your needs. The question, you men from a distant village, is, what place will you o
ccupy in our village hierarchy?’ Jogi Pawar, the mhal gaonkar asked.
Nilu Nayak folded his hands ‘Allow us to take part in your village festivals. Let us have the right to draw the temple chariot and to carry the deity’s palanquin like everyone else,’ he beseeched.
Naga Bhat turned to the families from Adolshi. ‘Ramnath is an incarnation of Ishwar and belongs to the Saiva tradition. He is represented by the black stone pindi or linga. Have you brought that with you? The Ramnath idol without the linga is like a man devoid of masculinity,’ he said.
‘No. We couldn’t carry it. We left it behind. Those wretches must have destroyed it by now,’ Nilu Nayak said.
‘In that case, you’ll have to immerse your deity in the sea.’
The men from Adolshi heard the priest’s words in stunned silence. Nilu’s eyes filled with tears.
Mhablu, a man of few words, finally spoke. ‘We thought our gods were very powerful, the temple in our village was the best. But now we have neither village nor temple. Just this idol without the linga.’ In a tone of resignation he declared, ‘We’ll stay here. We’ll do what you want.’
On Monday, the villagers from Adolshi carried their idol around the shrine five times and then placed it in the sanctum of the local Ramnath temple. The priest sent them to bathe in the stream and then guided them through the rituals where they worshipped both the Ramnath idols. They then performed the uttarpuja signifying the withdrawal of sanctity from the idol that they had brought from Adolshi. The three men picked up the idol and moved silently towards the beach.
It seemed to them that the sea had suddenly become calm, not a leaf stirred on the trees and there was no sound from the surrounding hills, even the stream seemed to have stopped flowing. This was a deep stillness, an emptiness, that none of them had ever experienced. Standing waist-deep in water they slowly immersed their beloved deity, allowing the receding waves to carry it into the darkest recesses of the sea. They stared blankly at the white sails of a boat on the horizon. Those sails must be propelled by the wind that blows over Adolshi, they thought.
Age of Frenzy Page 21
