At that moment, Jaga Palei became a symbol, the symbol of the glory and the fulfilment of the hopes and aspirations of the Oriya people. A sea of humanity surged forward to greet him, to meet the heretofore unknown, unheard-of wrestler. The waves broke on each other, there was a stampede. At least twenty-one persons had to be removed to hospital. The situation became so riotous and uncontrollable that the police had to be called out.
The crowd that returned home that evening had among its numbers those who had their shirts torn, watches and fountain pens lost, and their bodies sore. But everybody carried in his heart the Oriya national consciousness. And something else, which may be termed as the intoxication of heroism. As if each one of them was a Jaga Palei! Newspapers flashed photographs of that momentous wrestling match. All the Oriya papers raved in Jaga Palei’s praise! ‘Jaga Palei—Orissa’s glory’; ‘Jaga Palei—Orissa’s honour’; ‘Jaga Palei, the unparalleled Oriya wrestler’. ‘Never-heard-of-before wrestling at Cuttack!’ ‘Jaga Palei, Emperor of athletics’; ‘the Newest Success of the Unbeaten Wrestling Artist’ and so on.
Excitement spread rapidly to the rural areas as soon as the newspapers published the news. Many cursed their bad luck that they could not be witness to such an epoch- making event.
The week that followed could legitimately be called ‘Jaga Palei Week’. In buses and in trains, in hotels and in the village Bhagabat-tungi, the talk was only about Jaga Palei’s wrestling feat. This news completely over-shadowed all other daily news like the ‘Rocket to Mars’, ‘Man’s Flight in Space’, ‘Death of Lumumba’ and the subsequent daily events of Congo’s politics, ‘Success and Failure in Panchayat Samiti and Zilla Parishad Elections’, and many other exciting changes in the country. Since there were no auspicious marriage dates in the coming year, hundreds of marriages were solemnized in the fortnight following this event and in these festivities a frequent subject of discussion was Jaga Palei’s wrestling.
‘Did you go to see the wrestling?’
‘How did you like it?’
Even if one had not gone, one had to answer, ‘Oh, yes, of course; it was simply wonderful.’ It was almost as if to say otherwise was to do worse than confessing to a hidden guilt.
During that ‘Jaga Palei Week’, a small five-page booklet could be seen on sale in crowded places. The poet: ‘Abid’. The price: Ten paise. Hawkers were seen hawking the songbook with harmonium accompaniment in front of the cutchery, railway station, bus-stand and big squares. Glass-framed photographs of the wrestling event went up on the walls of photographers’ studios, and also at sweetmeat-and-tea-stalls and paan-shops in the town. Alando Mahila Mandali, Olangsha Yubak Mandal, Gababasta Grama Samaj, Bamphisahi Truckers Club, Ganganagar Sanskritika Sangha, Uttarward Kuchinda Minamandali, Ghusuri Abasor Binodan Samaj and many other institutions passed resolutions congratulating Jaga Palei and sent them to the press.
Even though his name had become a by-word everywhere, Jaga Palei of Sagadiasahi still followed his traditional profession of carrying gunny bags in the maalgodown. He had done this job ever since he was fifteen; from the day his father Uddhab Palei had returned the bullock carts of the money-lender, had come home, slept on the spread-out end of his dhoti and had never woken up again. Uddhab Palei had got an attack of pneumonia. The Chhotamian of Mohamaddia Bazaar had come and tried to exorcise the evil spirit. Govinda Ghadei of Janakasahi who kept different tablets in his shop inside the cutchery premises for curing different diseases, had administered four different tablets, bitter, kasa, raga (hot) and saline respectively. For this he had taken one rupee seventy-five paise. Karuna Gosain, the monk of Tinigheria had prescribed that he should feed eighteen bundles of straw to stray cattle on a Wednesday and then lay himself prostrate on the dust of the street. Uddhab had obeyed this prescription as well but nothing had helped. He died without discovering whether mankind had discovered a cure for pneumonia.
It was thus that Jaga Palei was left fatherless in the big city, with no job, no savings, no help and the greedy eyes of the well-to-do on his two-roomed thatched house and three gunths of land. Widowed mother, two minor siblings—Khaga and a twelve-year-old sister Sara. The well-wishers arrived and proffered their advice to the family: ‘Sell the plot of land, build a small house elsewhere and with the balance start some business.’ The argument appeared prima facie reasonable. The ancestral plot of land may have been in a congested locality of town but a little way away was the main road where a gunth sold at 700 rupees. With two rooms on it, it could fetch 3,000 rupees. Wouldn’t it be so much cheaper to purchase land and build a house in Tulsipur Bidanasi, Uttampur and around the Dairy Farm?
This is what the plot of land looked like: at its back a dirty, dark drain, on the right a tank whose rotten water threw up bubbles constantly; on the left a washerman’s house and a bustee that extended far; in the front, a lane hardly six to seven cubits wide and the back of the boundary wall of the double-storeyed building belonging to the money-lender Garib Das. Through the chinks in the boundary wall black waters tumbled down and accumulated in the plot, grew, extended, putrefied.
But Uddhab Palei had never sold that small plot of his ancestors, nor did his wife and son sell it. The advice of the well-wishers remained unheeded.
Another bit of advice from the same well-wishers was that the members of the household should take up service as domestic servants. Or else who would maintain them? At fifteen Jaga looked quite a man. Various offers came: an apprenticeship in driving bullock carts, operating machines in a saw-mill, service in shops. A babu suggested he do some domestic service with the chance of a peon’s post later. Another person came and told him that Jaga was very fortunate as his sahib wanted him to be his personal valet. No work—Jaga only had to accompany him wherever he went, a little bit of miscellaneous work as per his orders and there would be no end to the good food, tips and a salary to cap it all! Jaga was given the dream of flying in cars and planes, sleeping on thick mattresses, wearing costly clothes and eating good food. Many would come seeking little favours through him, flattering him in diverse ways. It would be for him to make or mar them. He would be a strong, stalwart person. The babu had done everything for persons who depended on him. After all for him money was just like earth and pebbles!
Jaga Palei listened to everything in silence. Somebody seemed to whisper inside him: ‘Do not listen Jaga, close your eyes, say “No”. No, you will not take to servanthood. However ferocious a dog with a thick blanket or fur, thick tail, huge body and large teeth—a dog remains a dog at the master’s call. It can only lick his boots and lie chained to a post. A dog seen from a master’s car staring from behind the glass-panes with big open eyes at the road and licking its tongue may excite the onlooker’s admiration. Nobody, however, can ever forget that he remains only a dog.’
To fifteen-year-old Jaga Palei such thoughts came naturally; for in his blood was the tradition of endless ancestors—people who tilled their soil and preserved an unbending tensile dignity which three generations of town life had not corroded.
Jaga turned his back on all the offers and persuasions to choose for himself the life of a daily wage-earner, carrying loads every day. His mother did not object. With the help of her daughter she opened a small snack-shop in the front room of the house. His mother had a knack of preparing good and tasty food. Sales were brisk. Khaga went hawking ground-nut and bara bhaja. Thereafter he took a job rolling beedis in a factory. Somehow, the family of four members lived on; nobody died, the house was not sold. From the outside everything looked the same. Four persons became of one mind, suffered hardships and privation. Nobody came to know anything of this.
Jaga had one obsession in life. Physical culture. Early inspiration for this came from his father’s godfather, the old khalipha of Sagadiasahi. Jaga remembered his mango complexion, the body of a young man, the flowing beard, the look of a child in his small blue eyes, and the green turban. Once he had tugged at Jaga’s shoulder and asked him why he did not attend his akhara. He
had asked Uddhab to hand Jaga over to him so that he could make a wrestler out of him. Uddhab had smiled and agreed. That was the beginning.
A couple of small rooms in an old building near a tamarind tree with a compound wall. That was the khalipha’s house. No wife, no children; nobody knew if ever there were. Only a single pleasure in life, the akhara. Only the akhara inside his compound. Early in the morning, before the darkness lifted, Jaga would go to the akhara and do various types of gymnastic exercises including practice with the club, the lathi and wrestling. Many joined the akhara; many also dropped out. But there wasn’t a sunrise when Jaga Palei would not come out from the akhara after his exercise.
The khalipha knew people in the other akharas in town. When wrestlers from other towns came he would arrange a competition. Jaga was unbeaten in these competitions. The town people who cared for wrestling soon knew his name. They would praise his iron-like body, the lightning speed of his reflexes and the marvellous tricks he had learnt from the khalipha. But rarely were these people from among the higher circles of society.
Mostly they were shopkeepers, tailors, butchers, drivers, carpenters and so on. This lack of fame in all sections of society was in the part due to the khalipha’s regulations. No showing-off, no publicity. Only during Dussera and Muharram was there a tradition of his team going round demonstrating their skill. Besides this, there would be competitions.
While growing up as a wrestler, Jaga had various other offers of jobs. One was a watchman’s job guarding somebody’s house with a rifle or a lathi. Good pay. The other proposal was still more astonishing. Enough food, monthly salary, special payment for special items of work. And the work would be of the age-old, time-honoured variety: to act as a Kichaka; in modern terminology, goondaism. King Virata had been defended by Kichaka. Now new empires had opened up in business, trade and industry. And empires always needed Kichakas. It was for the master to point a finger at the enemies. Then there would be work of all descriptions: staring hard at somebody, rendering somebody lame, breaking somebody’s neck, confining somebody illegally, locking someone up in a house, throwing stones at somebody’s house at night, accosting somebody on the way and so on. If dragged to the court the master would defend his Kichaka through lawyers without getting identified.
There was another proposal too. He would be somebody’s son-in-law and remain in that household and enjoy the property. Somebody had perhaps appreciated his health and beauty while looking down through the window of the first floor of a building. This proposal he turned down as well. What remained was the old work—carrying grey bags of cement from one place to another and getting paid per bag.
After the big wrestling match that day he found strangers crowding round him and jostling one another. Lights flooded on him from many directions and snaps were taken. Then came the rain of questions. Questions and more questions even before they could be answered: ‘How long have you been in wrestling? Who is your guru? Ah, Omar khalipha! Whom did you defeat earlier? Please give a list. What prizes did you win? What is your diet and in what quantities? Are you married? How many children? What do you consider necessary for health and long life?’
Somebody from the crowd shouted, ‘Do you agree that vegetable ghee is very conducive to good health? Ah, you have never taken that!’
More questions. ‘How many cups of tea do you take per day? What tea? You never take tea? Couldn’t you please tell us the truth, sir? What beedi do you prefer? Which gurakhu do you use? Which party do you support? What do you think of the recent changes in the country? Oh, when can you grant an interview? We would like to publish your photograph along with your signature and your views on our commodities: flash it in cinema slides and finalize the dues. Please, your autograph please.’ And all the time, more jostling and pushing about. The waves were breaking. And that solved many questions, for the questioners could hardly remain in their places. Jaga Palei felt suffocated. He stood in grim silence and folded his hands. That too was photographed. Then he turned and ran through the crowd, still afraid that they might follow him.
First he went to his guru and fell at his feet. The khalipha embraced him, his flowing beard touching his chest and back and said: ‘That’s a good boy; you have preserved my name.’ Jaga hardly noticed the praise from other quarters. He knew somebody always wins and somebody always loses. Just as in this contest he had won and the other man was defeated.
From the khalipha he went to the temple and listened for a time to peaceful music sung to the accompaniment of the tambourine. On the way back he heard the radios blaring forth news of the wrestling. A little later the newspaper-vendors, carrying bundles of papers, were shouting the same news. His head was reeling. Instead of returning home directly, he went to the Kathjuri embankment. Returning late at night, he found an elaborate meal awaiting him: rice, dal, mashed potato, fried brinjals, fish curry. His family members embraced and patted him and praised him in their own way. Excepting a few neighbours, no one else came to look at him. He was relieved.
Before dawn the next morning he was back at his exercise and then the daily carrying of bags. He did not say a word to anybody about his profession and his private life. Newspapers gave out the fact that he was a labourer. He was not aware how news about him had spread; but news of his achievements also circulated in that area of the malgodown where he earned his daily wage, and people would stop him on the way to congratulate him and ask about his wrestling. They would tell him about his high place in the world of Indian wrestling and how he had raised the prestige of Orissa. They said he would have a great future if only he won the last round. That would bring him great prestige and status and take him to wrestling matches outside Orissa and even outside India. He would go to Ceylon, Singapore, Mongolia, Peking, Japan, Russia, Germany, America, Africa and so on. Along with prestige he would also earn a lot. For all this, he had only to win the last round of the All India Wrestling Competition.
And there was also a lot of useful advice! He should take greater care of his diet, health and practice; he must take fruits, mutton, milk, vitamins; he ought to be careful. After all he had to hold aloft the prestige of Orissa and later of India.
The flood of advice made him sigh wearily. He only saw mutton when walking down the tired streets. Milk was a dream. And by fruits he understood bananas, or at the most, coconuts. All that he aspired for was a seer of chura per day but his domestic budget was tight and rarely permitted more than half a seer.
A few days later a large number of unemployed labourers came to town from down south. They camped in the open under a tree and all that they wanted was to earn some wages and somehow exist. The wage rate went down. To his utter misfortune; his younger brother, Khaga, met with an accident while returning from the beedi factory. He had fractures and multiple injuries and was carried to the hospital. This added to the woes of the family and Jaga’s daily worries.
A newcomer opened a small hotel at the end of the village street and started selling various types of delicacies and sweets and cakes and tea. Benches and chairs were provided and food was served on sparkling clean plates with a fan overhead and music from the radio. Customers started dwindling at the shop run by Jaga’s mother and sister. Wants stared at him from every side.
And yet Jaga Palei persisted with his wrestling. His diet came down from half-a-seer to a quarter seer of chura and fried rice worth only four annas a day and one coconut in three days. He would fill his stomach with some rice and whatever green leafy vegetables were available. Hunger would burn fierce in his stomach. When there was no work, Jaga could be seen sitting in grim silence, lost in thought. He would feel how lonely he was, how friendless, forsaken! Everybody had forgotten him a few days after the wrestling match.
Three months passed. Then came the fateful day of the final test: Dilip Singh of Punjab versus Jaga Palei of Orissa. When it was over, the newspapers flashed the report along with an analysis of the match. All were agreed that the wrestling, the artistry and skill which Jaga applied again
st the heavily-built, massive Dilip Singh were superb but the odds were heavily against him. It appeared that Dilip Singh would fall flat, but ultimately he won.
Dilip Singh’s life-sketch appeared in the papers. All the great men in the wrestling world were his patrons. There was also information about the variety and quality of his diet, how his weight was taken every day and many other facts about him. Jaga Palei was again in the wilderness. Fresh discussions started in trains and buses and in crowded corners. Some people even expressed resentment against the man who had soiled Orissa’s name; many were unhappy and crestfallen. Even that was quickly forgotten. But the day after the wrestling match, like any other day, Jaga Palei quietly went back to his exercise and the carrying of bags.
Translated from Oriya by Sitakant Mahapatra
R.K. Narayan
Another Community
I am not going to mention caste or community in this story. The newspapers of recent months have given us a tip which is handy—namely the designation: ‘One Community’ and ‘Another Community’. In keeping with this practice I am giving the hero of this story no name. I want you to find out, if you like, to what community or section he belonged; I’m sure you will not be able to guess it any more than you will be able to say what make of vest he wore under his shirt; and it will be just as immaterial to our purpose. He worked in an office which was concerned with insurance business. He sat at a table, checked papers and figures between noon and five p.m. every day, and at the end of a month his pay envelope came to his hands containing one hundred rupees. He was middle aged now, but his passage from youth to middle age was, more or less, at the same seat in his office. He lived in a little house in a lane: it had two rooms and a hall and sufficed for his wife and four children, although he felt embarrassed when a guest came. The shops were nearby, the children’s school was quite close, and his wife had friends all around.
The Penguin Book of Modern Indian Short Stories Page 9
