ANYATHA MUULLYAHEENA. (Otherwise worthless) chapter one.

1980.

A boy of eight or nine followed a group of three, not related; as he witnessed them collect the leftover partially burnt firewoods from the village crematorium, tied together with a rope of animal skin. Not Yamaduts (messengers of God of death) they were. From that place called Kakudigadia (pond of cucumber), they moved on, reached the dead cow thrown on the usual place of Tumunia, surrounded by royal vultures (extinct species) and country dogs. Those moved away honoring human arrival. Team of three peeled off the skin with clinical precision of plastic surgeons. Collected some flesh as well. They were not Aghori Sadhaks (those who practice the higher school of occultism). They were the drumbeaters of the village, uninhibited to cook the forbidden dead flesh. They would tan the skin to cover their drums.
This incident happened forty year back, I was the boy, not inhibited by my liberal parents and was not under close watch. No one kept track of a child in a village. This was otherwise worthless (ଅନ୍ୟଥା ମୂଲ୍ୟହୀନ) until date, but suddenly I feel and realize, these things very powerfully shaped my subtle sensitivity.
 There is nothing heroic in presenting a real pathetic social picture of my village four decades ago.....But all pictures were not gloomy, the village was proud of the drum beaters too, as they were one of the best country band in nearby areas.
It was the third and last day of rajaparba (the monsoon festival) in the afternoon boys and young men, all of them were playing bagudi (kabadi). On their demand, the drumbeaters were playing their band free of cost; after all it was a village function. They were not allowed to play with them, they didn`t mind, rather they were enjoying their participation in their own way. The playground was very huge. Tendu tree the last specimen of the lost forest was at its extreme west where ends the village. All the girls of the village passed the field with their most color full festive wears to see off raja for a year, under that tree.
I sincerely wished at least one of the drum’s man played Kabadi, not that I was a social activist to fight un-touchability but I should get a chance to beat his vacated drum with a child’s enthusiasm. In a similar situation, a year back I tried to play a sword on the stage as the wounded and defeated character dropped it on the open stage drama by one Opera group called Kamudei opera of village Sahagan. People laughed at that and talked about, “Who is that kid, is it Rabi?”  I was as delighted as embarrassed.

 With all the complex social issues, people stayed in ambience. The issue not yet settled.

  Now also I cannot beat their drum and they cannot enter the Sanctum Sanctorum of Lord Jagannath even if they are believers.

If Raja festival came at the arrival of monsoon ending the summer on the day of fourteenth June the beginning of rainy season , two months back on the day fourteenth April our new year started with arrangement of the festival of mixed fruit shake chief ingredient being Bella fruit. It was the day of  Pana (fruit shake) Sankranti,Meaningful end of spring season.  On April fourteenth the drumbeaters gathered on Maa baseli`s place of worship in the center of village, their men wore deep black colored lehengas, heaviest possible robe, stored for years, needed no blouse but were covered with garlands of china rose .With heavy ghungurus (jingle bells) on ankles and belts from which bells hung as pendants. The sound attracted me on my mother’s lap. They drank the most toxic vanga pana and country liquor in plenty, pierced the outer skin of both arms with dampanas (thick needles used for stitching paddy sacks), through the skin entered thread of thickness of a Brahmin`s sacred-threads. They danced back and forth in series allowing blood of everyone soaking the two parallel threads, and their women went on applying turmeric water to the wound. The leader with the antique attire was dancing. Elders said Maa baseli entered his body being pleased on him he was then a divine Kalishi who could tell the fate of the village and if any danger then what is the escape route. I was about to vomit, can`t remember out of fear or pain or the smell. My mother offered pranam and told me to pay pranam (salute) as she did so.

 I was not the doctor to think infection but it pained my sensitivity. A drumbeater at the bottom of the society, upgraded to a God whom elders can salute, it amused me. It only happens in my country’s pure villages.