HUL: Cry Rebel!

By Sanjay Bahadur

When the ancient ways of a peaceful but brave tribe is threatened by the arrogance of an empire, savagery of the “civilised” and greed of the affluent, the only thing left to do is rise in rebellion. The year is 1855. The tribe: Santals. Born a few months after the British soldiers raided their village and killed his father, Bikram grows up with a strong intolerance for injustice. Lt. James Davies of the British Native Infantry finds himself in the madding world of 19th century Colonial India. But he is quick to learn and develops a strange affection for this complex land and its people. Shibani is a Bengali child-widow and an heiress, who finds her life lonely and stifling. Of the many burdens she must bear at a young age are protecting her estate and the future of her son. Their lives collide in the backdrop of mounting unease amongst the tribals. Result of extensive historical research and brimming with memorable characters, the story moves through a whirlwind of passion, greed, betrayal, cruelty and sacrifice. As Bikram grows up, he realises it’s his identity as a Santal that has become a bane. He finds himself sucked into the vortex of Hul – the Great Santal Rebellion against the British and their lackeys –the ‘dikus’. Thousands of Santal tribesmen wage a desperate war for self-determination. Bare feet against boots; arrows against howitzers. The odds seem insurmountable. 50,000 Santals are massacred in the Hul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roli Books
• Release date: May 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9788174368904

Book preview

Prologue

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2 November 1857

A dusty haze hovered above the knoll in the early winter dusk washing over the rocky landscape. The setting sun was a fluid blob of dark orange spiked on a cluster of khajur trees. An arrowhead of wild geese made its leisurely progress towards the western horizon while a pair of kites floated in a dizzy gyre high above the knoll, as if marking a kill.

Captain James Davies of the Ramgurh Irregular Cavalry took a deep, tired breath and pulled the reins of his beloved tan Afghan charger, Loco – his trusted companion of more than half a decade. It was with great reluctance that he had accepted his new ‘voluntary’ assignment. All irregular cavalry units were formed by taking officers from established battalions. James had been ‘requested’ to volunteer from the 7th BNI only because a few years back he had conducted training exercises for the Ramgurh Regiment. These units were meant for heroes – something that James never wanted to be. For him, the best battles and wars were the ones that were never fought.

A fine coat of dust covered his uniform that was a little frayed at the edges. The stiff, gold-embroidered collar of his coat was prickly with the grime from days of neglect. Beads of sweat tickled the tip of his nose making him even more irritable. He was glad that as an Irregular, he could wear a cotton turban, which soaked up most of the perspiration oozing from his head. His armpits itched under the thick fabric of the coat and his palms felt slippery as he touched the smooth leather reins. It was the beginning of the cold weather but still, the temperatures only fell after sunset. Looking around at his counterparts in their sartorial elegance, he wondered for the umpteenth time why the English troops couldn’t adapt their uniforms to suit the Indian weather.

He was a tall, knobbly man of about thirty with limp, sand-coloured hair, drooping moustaches and ill-trimmed sideburns. He had the slightly creased and burnt complexion that distinguished the ‘soldier sahibs’ from their civilian counterparts. His eyes were his most striking feature: steel-grey with charcoal flecks – hard and piercing – that had earned him the nickname, ‘Flint’ amongst his friends. His notorious short-temper had made the soubriquet even more appropriate. His nose was straight and sharp, set firmly over a rather wide mouth, making him look permanently amused, even when he was not.

A few paces behind him his rissaldar-major, Mahadeo Singh – the senior-most native officer of his regiment and an old friend – was sitting ramrod straight in his saddle, scanning the knoll ahead. A hundred yards behind them, spread out in a wide arc was the main body of the skirmish unit under the overall command of Colonel George Simpson of the Ramgurh Light Infantry.

It was a motley column, comprising of a duffadar and ten sowars from Captain Rattray’s Seick Battalion and a company of eighty sepahis drawn from Her Majesty’s 53rd Regiment and the Bengal Police Battalion. Not surprisingly, Dalton, the crafty commissioner of Chotanagpur had not included in this skirmish unit any native soldiers from the Ramgurh Battalion, which had disgraced itself by rising in open revolt against the Honourable Company in August and was now confined to the cantonment after the decisive Battle of Chattra.

The vast subcontinent seemed to have suddenly woken up as if from a troubled sleep. The East India Company had not expected that. Earlier that year, in May, when a native soldier went berserk and shot at his British officer in an army base in a small town called Meerut in north India, senior military and civilian officers of the Company had dismissed it with a disparaging shrug. But that dismissive reaction very soon changed to alarm and then to fear as unit after unit of the Company’s army joined the armed rebellion.

By the end of July, the great revolt had reached the Chotanagpur plateaus bordering the strategic province of Bengal in the east. A bloody battle was fought in October between the rebels and the troops remaining loyal to the Company in the rocky fields near Chattra. The rebels lost the battle but the bigger war continued to rage all over the country and left the Company hanging on to its territories in India by its fingernails. To add to its woes in Chotanagpur, the incomprehensible savage tribe called Santals had also chosen the very time for resuming their spontaneous uprising against the Company and native landlords with a renewed vigour. In fact, several hundred Santals had fought alongside the mutineers in Chattra. It was a bloody mess.

With every regiment and battalion engaged in a desperate war to retain its Indian territories, the Company commanders often patched together temporary skirmish units to quell the Santals. These units comprised of some native sepahis and policemen under the command of a few experienced British officers. The unspoken motto of these skirmish units was: ‘No prisoners!’ The policy was perhaps brutal but very effective. Still, not every British officer liked it.

James glanced at his rissaldar-major questioningly and the giant Rajput from Oudh nodded almost imperceptibly, absentmindedly caressing his flaring whiskers: he was ready. James turned and stood up in his stirrups, raising his open palm in a signal to halt. He watched as Simpson acknowledged and gave a hushed command to the subedar walking beside his horse. Simpson’s second lieutenant – a naive rookie – sat on his horse at a respectable distance behind the ‘Hero of Panchet’.

The unit came to a halt in silence. Some of the sepahis squatted on their haunches but remained alert, with their muskets resting upright on the gritty soil. A few of them broke away in a lose group to share some khaini – flavoured tobacco popular in the Bengal Army of the East India Company, and increasingly tolerated – even enjoyed – by the officers of the Queen’s Army.

Jatin Chandra Pal, one of the biggest and most influential zamindars of Ranchi charged up from behind the column on his beautiful white Arab stallion flanked by two cohorts. James noticed his smug expression as Pal leaned in his saddle and said something to Simpson that made them both snigger. It took James all his self-control to resist the burning urge of thrashing the hell out of Pal – and Simpson, while he was at it. But he felt the admonishing gaze of Mahadeo Singh who had edged his horse closer to his officer, ready to stop any foolish outburst.

There was a long history of mutual dislike – both professional and personal – between the two English officers. At one point in time, they were also rivals in love. Simpson was much senior in rank and years but James felt no respect for him. A man who could have gunned down three-thousand men in a matter of minutes was not the kind James could respect. For him, Simpson, the ‘hero’ of Panchet was simply an assassin.

His hatred for Jatin Pal was another matter. The man was outright evil. That politics made such people allies of the Company administration was a fact James found hard to digest.

‘We have a job to do, sahib,’ Mahadeo Singh said gruffly. Davies started to protest but Mahadeo cut him short. ‘Our orders from Dalton sahib are very clear. There is nothing you can do, Kaptan sahib. This is not our paltan. You don’t hold the command. Simpson sahib does. We are just guides. I have been talking to some of the men here – they don’t like what they are doing on this mission any more than you or I do. But then, the Company Bahadur moves in mysterious ways. As true soldiers, we just have to follow our orders – not our hearts. And I don’t want my ufsar to get into any more trouble.’

James stared hard at his friend for a long moment but Mahadeo held his gaze. Finally, with a resigned sigh he settled back in his saddle and nodded. Mahadeo dismounted from his horse in one swift, fluid motion and un-shouldered his prized Brown Bess. He handed the musket to James and draped the reins of his horse around a gnarled stump. Then, slinging his curved talwar across his broad back, Mahadeo jogged away towards the knoll – about a quarter of a mile ahead. For a big man, his movements were quick and quiet. The shifty-eyed Santal informer Jatin Pal had brought along scurried like a rat behind the redoubtable rissaldar-major. Briefly, James wondered what made someone betray his own people.

Every pair of eyes in the platoon was transfixed on the veteran soldier and the slimy Santal spy as they ran through the prickly scrubs to the base of the knoll. The silence was oppressive – broken only by the occasional snort from a horse, brittle jingle of bridles and spurs or the dull scrape of pewter canteens on red rocks.

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The two Santal men lying on the dry grass behind a sharp spur of rock peered through a fissure at the scene below. Actually, one of them was a mere boy. They had been asked by the mukhia, the village head, to keep an eye on the approach from the jungles to the north and the younger boy was swollen with adolescent pride at the responsibility given. The older one simply looked tired.

Akui could not have been more than twenty or twenty-one while his companion, Ramesar was several years younger. They were both wearing knee-length langots with rough, woollen stoles to protect them against the chilly winds. The older boy was carrying his tonga:a:sar, a powerful, metal and wood longbow and a kapi – a short battle-axe. The younger one was holding a leather quiver with a dozen or so poison-tipped arrows.

They were handsome boys with the dark, chocolate complexion and short, supple frames typical of their great tribe. Their faces were flat and their broad noses separated large, almond-shaped eyes under narrow and slightly protruding foreheads. They could hardly contain the excitement they felt at what they could see from the vantage point above the knoll.

A short while back, the firangis had emerged from the jungles with troops on foot and on horseback. They could spot three firangis in the paltan, all riding great war horses. It was easy to spot the colourless ones. While one of them had trotted ahead of the contingent, the other two had slowed down and walked their horses alongside their troops. They had come to a halt about half a mile from the base of the knoll and were waiting. One large man – a bearded diku had climbed off his horse and was quickly making his way towards the little hill the boys were positioned on. Very soon, he would reach the base.

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Bikram was an exceptional man. For a Santal, he was colossal: just a couple of inches below six feet. He was also exceptionally dark. It was said that he smeared himself with coal dust. His eyes were jet black and close set and his nose was straight and narrow. His thick lips were the colour of burnt rose. He had a lithe, muscled body – not heavy, but taut and supple as a wet jute rope. His skin was smooth – almost hairless and seemed to glow with some internal light. His hair was sheared close to his scalp. He was a still man and moved with sudden and sure motion. His long arms reached almost to his knees and that explained why he was such a fine archer.

Bikram paced through the sarana, the sacred grove. He was restless. For ten days he and his band of Santal warriors had been hiding in the tiny hamlet of Jharpo, in Koka Comar’s old house. Koka himself had disappeared – some said he had struck a deal with the firangis. But Bikram didn’t believe that. He still remembered the horror and anger in Koka’s eyes when they had stood amidst 3000 slain warriors on the banks of the Panchet Lake. No, Koka could never be a traitor like Bikram’s step-brother Harku.

For almost a month after the debacle at Chattra, Bikram had been leading his tolee of warriors away from the hotspots. Along the way, several stragglers of the once mighty Santal army had joined them. His tolee had swelled from the original eight to thirty warriors now. They had marched through dense jungles, climbed countless peaks, lived on wild berries, fowls and beasts – even been forced to eat muskrats. But they had survived and were willing to fight again.

As he walked through the dense canopy of trees in the sarana, Bikram felt a deep sense of despair. For nearly twenty-five years of his life he had just survived. He had never learned to ‘live’ – in the normal sense of the word. His father Doonda manjhi had been shot down by the firangis before Bikram’s birth and his mother, Jiu had been brutally stoned to death by the village priest in front of his eyes. He had a beautiful wife with whom he had hardly spent any time in the three years of their marriage. He had a two-year-old son who didn’t recognize him when he had reached Jharpo. He had no village he could call his own anymore. His closest friends had been martyred.

Bikram hadn’t wanted it that way. But some things were beyond the control of mortals. A man can only do so much. And when he had done his best, death always came as the end. For the past few days, Bikram had a growing feeling that he had done his best.

He felt uneasy. There seemed to be so little he could do. Yet, he knew, there was so much left to be done.

March 1830

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The chattering family of black-faced langurs looked restless. A young mother grabbed her baby and scurried to the topmost branches of the sal tree. The others chattered and jumped excitedly, making the leaves shiver. A flock of swallows perched on the nearby peepal screeched angrily before taking to the open skies. A lone hare darted across the brown grass and vanished into a little burrow in the ground.

Doonda froze mid-stride and raised his hands in a warning to the three other runners behind him. He could tell. It was close. The four warriors stood still, their broad, muscled chests heaving wet with exertion. They had been running for almost an hour, looking for a suitable stretch of flatland along the holy river – Damuda.

The old manjhi of their village had called them aside one day and requested Doonda and his friends to find a suitable site for a new village. Their old village had served its purpose. The pond had gone dry. The surrounding fields had become barren and the forests around was devoid of game. It was time to move.

Doonda and his friends had readily agreed to locate a new site for a village. It was indeed an honour. By mutual consent they decided to explore the riverside for their new village. They had all grown up in the hills and knew how hard life was out there. In comparison, living next to a river was a boon. But they had to wait for the right omens. Five days ago, when they had reached down to the river line, they were sure they would find a spot. But, wherever they had stopped, the omens had been bad.

So they had kept running, sleeping on rocks and grass at nights and eating whatever they could find in the forests. They had progressed quite rapidly along the river and Doonda was slowly beginning to worry. The distance they had already covered in five days would take the old, the children and the women folk of their hatu almost a fortnight to cover. He prayed every morning to the Sun god – Sin bonga – and asked for good omens. But so far, his quest had been quite futile.

Doonda moved cautiously through the thick undergrowth. The ground sloped down till it met a vast, flat scrub-land. Beyond that, he could see a glimpse of the mighty river. His companions didn’t move, crouching in a battle-ready stance. Now they too could sense its presence. Doonda hefted his kapi in his right hand and edged slowly out of the forest into the scrub-land. He knew no fear.

Doonda froze – the sight of a tiger in the wild always has that effect! The magnificent cat was barely twenty paces from him. Its gold-black-white coat reflected the glory of the bright, mid-day sun. As Doonda emerged from the forest, the tiger raised its head. He had been sleeping after a big kill. For a long moment, the two stared at each other.

The tiger gave a low grunt and placed its head back on its massive paws. A Santal learnt to respect and understand all animals from childhood. So Doonda could sense that the tiger posed no threat – it wouldn’t attack if not provoked.

Before his friends could stop him, Doonda had started walking towards the animal. The tiger jerked its head and gave a low, warning growl. Doonda kept walking slowly towards the river – he had to claim this spot. There was nothing more auspicious in a forest than a tiger. Even a pug mark was considered a good omen. But a spot marked by the presence of a live tiger was almost holy.

He walked quietly towards the resting beast with steady steps, making no sudden movements. He slowly lowered his kapi till his fighting arm hung straight down his side. The tiger shook its mighty head once and got up in one lithe motion. By now, Doonda was barely ten paces from it. He slowed down even more and kept his body erect. The tiger eyed the human with a cool, confident gaze, assessing every move – still and alert. Doonda came to a halt barely an arm’s length from the tiger’s jaws and bent his head slightly in a silent gesture of respect. The tiger made no movement. The feral smell of the magnificent beast invaded Doonda’s senses as he stood there.

For what seemed to the waiting Santals like eternity, Doonda and the tiger – man and beast – stood motionless in an eye-lock. Then, it turned abruptly and walked away with a nonchalance that only a tiger can display. Doonda hadn’t moved a muscle.

When the foliage had stopped shaking where the tiger had disappeared into the forest, Doonda placed his kapi on the ground and un-shouldered his bow and quiver. He untied the small pouch he was wearing on his waist and placed it gently on the moist earth, just where the tiger had been moments ago. From the pouch, he removed a small roll of cloth which he carefully spread on the ground. By now, his companions had come out into the clearing and were walking down to where Doonda was kneeling on the ground. They stood in silence behind him as he removed some sun-dried rice, sindur and a vial of oil from the pouch and placed them on the piece of cloth.

Doonda gave a nod to Mauji, the youngest of the group and the lad trotted off towards the river with a narrow-necked earthen pot he was carrying on a sling across his back. Bishnoo, the oldest among the lot – a thick-set man of about thirty – put down the weir basket that he was carrying. It contained two white and one speckled fowl that had been given to them by the hatu godet – in-charge of village security – for sacrifice on the chosen site. The fowls clucked noisily from inside.

Doonda took a large pinch of the sindur and smeared the red powder at four points on the ground that marked the outline of the spot where the tiger had been resting. He then smeared some sindur in the centre of that rectangle and dropped small heaps of the sun-dried rice near the five sindur-smeared points. Mauji returned with the earthen pot filled with water and they placed it near the centre of the marked ground.

Doonda and Mauji stood aside as Bishnoo drove three stakes near the spot. Then he removed the lid of the weir basket and took out the fowls one by one, tying each to a stake with a thin twine of dried grass. Biju, the fourth member of Doonda’s group was the Kudam naeke of their hatu, the priest of the outskirts. They were fortunate to have him in the group because he was familiar with all the rituals and would ensure that the omens were read correctly. It was important to interpret the omens accurately as the future of the village depended on it.

Biju was very pleased at having found a site that was blessed by the presence of a tiger and was so close to the Damuda. The soil was rich and the surrounding jungle was dense. If only the omens turned out to be favourable, he would be remembered as one of the founders of the new village. Maybe, in time, the people would also select him as the head priest – the naeke. But, for now, they had to wait for the signs to reveal themselves.

He tested the twines that Bishnoo had tied the birds with. If the fowls managed to break free during the night, it would be a very bad omen. Also, if the length was too long, they may peck away at the piles of rice and that too was considered bad. Reading the signs that the bongas sent through animals and inanimate things was a very complicated process. It took years for a man to learn interpretation of omens.

Biju knew that if, the next morning, they found several large feathers within the area marked by sindur it would mean that several village elders will die. If they found small feathers, then the village will lose many children. But, if they found no feathers within that parameter, then there would be no deaths in the village in the near future. The droppings of the fowls also had meaning: if they were scattered all over, wealth would be well distributed through the village but if they were all piled in one place, then only the manjhi would prosper.

The Kudam naeke was particularly anxious to know which direction would ants carry the rice – for that would reveal the location where they will have to bring up places to worship the different bongas. If the earthen pot was overturned during the night by some animal, they will face drought shortly and if the water spilled to wash away the sindur marks – the village will be washed away in flood. There were many possibilities of interpretation and Biju prayed to Jaher era – the Lady of the Sacred Grove – to grant him wisdom to interpret the signals from the bongas. But all that had to wait for the ascent of Sin bonga the next morning. He gave one last look at the arrangements and indicated that he was ready to make the invocation.

His companions sat down on their haunches around him and he folded his hands and closed his eyes. Biju started reciting in ancient Kherwarian – the language of their ancestors:

O Sin bonga which art in heaven,

Like a bamboo canopy thou art stretched

Across the four corners of the earth -

The four worlds thou hast enveloped.

And all ye Five Great bongas,

We cast the objects that ye see here

On this virgin soil, amidst these virgin forests.

We seek omens and the signs from you.

So reveal to us your secret speech:

Show us

Milk as milk,

Water as water.

Appraise everything

Then show us all!

The sun, as if on cue, came out from behind a small, fluffy cloud.

The four men gathered their weapons and travel pouches and crossed over the scrub-land to the river bank. There they stripped down to their loin-cloth and splashed for a long time in water: wrestling and swimming. It was late afternoon when they came out – cleansed and refreshed and mightily hungry. They had a simple meal of some left-over mahua dough-balls and some pounded rice that they were carrying.

As darkness descended upon the primitive landscape of the Damuda valley, they settled down around the campfire, drinking sweet mahua beer and swapping old tales. Bishnoo, as usual, got a little drunk and started singing some raunchy marriage songs with Mauji joining in. Soon, Biju dragged a log and started beating it with sticks, producing a flat but racy accompaniment to the songs. Doonda loved to dance – every good Santal warrior did. He took a deep swallow of the mahua beer and leaped to his feet. Doonda picked up his battle-axe and started dancing a dance as ancient as the first man – Haram.

The log-fire flared and crackled – washing everything in a stroboscopic blaze. Stark shadows seemed to leap out of the flames to join Doonda – dipping, lunging, pirouetting and swaying with his every move. Bishnoo’s voice changed its pitch and soared to the starlit heavens and Mauji’s followed in youthful abandon. Biju’s hands were a blur, pounding a rattling rhythm that struck deep into Doonda’s heart and made his feet fly. Higher and higher he jumped in a hot chase of Bishnoo’s rising pitch. He flew over the blazing fire – his kapi twirling magically in his hands. Nothing else in the universe existed for the four men. Just them. The dancing fire. Dark Damuda in front. Black forest behind. And the shivering stars above.

All of a sudden, Bishnoo stopped and Biju followed with a final roll of his sticks. The river bank plunged into stony silence with just the low gush of the river and soft rustle of the jungle holding them in a warm embrace. Doonda collapsed in a heap and lay panting.

The warriors stretched out on the cool sand and wrapped themselves in their rough woollen shawls. They faded off to deep slumber and dreamt of a new world that was to come.

The next morning, they got up before sunrise and bathed. Biju led them back to the scrub-land where they had marked the spot. They approached the spot just as the first rays of Sin bonga struck Damuda valley and painted everything golden-pink.

The three fowls were still there, clucking and pecking where Bishnoo had tied them. The sindur smears were intact. The earthen pot was standing where it had been placed. There were no fowl feathers on the ground within the sindur smeared parameter but there were plenty of droppings scattered all over. Biju sighed and silently thanked Jaher era for the omens. He announced the site to be perfect. His friends hooped and jumped with joy and embraced each other. Bishnoo made a mock bow to Doonda and called him ‘manjhi’ – the chief. At that, Doonda laughed and bowed to Biju and pronounced him the ‘naeke’ – the head priest.

Doonda bent down to pick up the earthen pot to carry back to their camp. He didn’t notice the fowl feather that had settled on the back of his hand and as he lifted the jar, the feather slipped down and fell in the water. Biju, standing next to him noticed this with alarm and grabbed Doonda’s hands. What does that mean? He wondered with mounting dismay. Every other sign had been so favourable. But now, a fowl feather had fallen into the earthen pot and that too from the hands of Doonda. Will it mean a death in the near future? Will Doonda kill someone? What did the bongas want? Did they want blood? A sacrifice?

Yes, he concluded. Perhaps the bongas were reminding him of the sacrifice due. Usually, Biju would have sacrificed the fowls himself, but today, he thought the bongas wanted Doonda to make the sacrifice. He asked his friend to put aside the earthen pot and sacrifice the fowls. He handed his khanda – a short-edged machete – to Doonda who looked a little puzzled but nodded.

Though a warrior, Doonda never liked performing sacrifices. Killing for sacrifice was in cold blood. At the same time he knew it was important too – he knew that it was the right of the bongas. But he would rather leave it to the priests.

Bishnoo untied the white fowl first and gave it to Doonda. Biju invoked the Great Five bongas and nodded. Doonda held the pulsing neck of the squawking and flapping bird in his left hand and made a clean stroke with the khanda. The fowl’s head flew from its body and landed near the earthen pot. A warm jet of blood spurted from the headless bird and Doonda sprayed it in all the four directions as was required by tradition. He repeated the ritual with the other two fowls and when he finished, he was covered in blood and tufts of feathers.

They decided to spend one more night at the same place on the river bank to celebrate and rest before starting the five-day run back to their old village. They decided to catch some fish for a small feast.

Mauji was the master fisherman of the group. He and Doonda often had competitions in the village pond – but Doonda always lost. So, Doonda challenged Mauji to catch the first fish in the river. He knew that fishing in the village pond was very different from fishing in a river. In a pond, the expert fisherman would use his secret recipe of har – fish poison made of stem-less date, fruit of corco, jioti grass, bark of kumbir or of sakri phol, fruit of loto or of any of the several other plants with intoxicating properties. This he would strew in his corner of the pond and wait till the fish got drunk on the juices of the har. Then they would simply throw in their net or weir basket and haul out the sluggish fish. But that was not possible in a flowing river. It would have to be sheer skill, agility and speed. They agreed to fish with bare hands. Whoever caught the first fish was to get to crunch its delicious head. Mauji laughed and agreed.

Mauji was a spirited youth with an open face and sparkling eyes. Always cheerful and enthusiastic, he almost worshipped Doonda as his hero. There was no work that he was not willing to do for anyone in the village. People liked him and the elders nodded appreciatively whenever they saw him pass by. He held promise. He was the ideal Santal boy – strong, intelligent, brave, and modest. The young girls of the clan had started eyeing him and Doonda often teased him: ‘Beware of the she-crocodiles, O great fisherman! I find you dallying too much with them lately.’ But Mauji was too good-natured to mind.

Bishnoo and Biju gathered some firewood and got the fire going to dry their loin-cloths and sat down to watch the competition, where the winner would be decided not only on the basis of his agility and speed in fishing but also by the weight and size of the catch. Doonda and Mauji entered the water wearing nothing but their glistening sandalwood-coloured skin. Doonda had a handsome face, with narrow, black eyes and high cheek-bones. His body was supple, sinewy and lean. Mauji was still a young boy, barely into his seventeenth year but his body was taut as a bowstring and his eyes flashed like the lightening. He was smiling, knowing what Doonda was thinking. He loved Doonda as an older brother but that didn’t mean that he didn’t want to win the fishing challenge. For the last several months, Doonda had never won and Mauji wanted to keep it that way. He knew that he was held in awe by most of the hatu boys because no one bettered Doonda at anything – be it running, archery, hunting, or dancing. He was simply the village champion at everything, except fishing.

The two took up positions about ten paces away from each other, submerged to their waists. By now the sun had gone behind them so their bodies cast shadows on the water. From experience, Mauji knew that it was a tricky situation – shadows created illusions and made the fisherman commit mistakes. He preferred hand-fishing with the sun in his face.

Bishnoo started singing – always a village ruse for distracting the competitors. Doonda smiled. He realized that his friend was trying to improve his odds by distracting the acknowledged fishing champion, Mauji. His eyes became slits as he peered into the water. His hands hung loose on his sides with his fingers just skimming the surface of the water. He glanced sideways at Mauji and saw his opponent slowly lean forward – he had spotted his prey. Doonda’s eyes darted back to the waters in front of him. He too spotted a potential catch – a rui that was almost four spans of his hand. He kept his eyes on it and waded a little deeper into the river. Now he was almost chest-deep in water.

The rui he had marked was frisky. It flitted across the river-bed, changing directions. Doonda bent lower till waves were lapping at his shoulders. He turned his palms up towards the sky and waited with bated breath for the rui to pass over them. His face was almost pressed against the little waves and his eyes were glued to his target. Slowly, he lowered his hands till his palms were skimming the water. His back screamed against the strain but Doonda shut his mind to the pain. His breathing became shallow and then stopped. Doonda had turned to water. He willed the fish to turn once more and move towards his open palms which it gradually did.

In one lightning motion Doonda’s palms flew up through the sandy water. He felt the fish bounce against his palms that were spread like the wings of an eagle. He watched as his hands and the fish emerged above the waves, both fluttering frantically, glinting in the evening sun. He clutched desperately at the head and the tail as he pulled his hands close to his chest. He could feel the mad thrashing of the rui’s fins against his soaked skin. He held on tight and felt his heart beat against the rui’s heart. Dhuk! Dhuk! Dhuk! And then suddenly the rui made a desperate lunge – twisting and pushing out from where he held her in the crook of his arms. She fell towards the water and he dived after her. He hit the water hard, swallowing a small part of Damuda and shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the fish was gone. He stood up, water trailing from his head and shoulders in glittery streams. He squeezed the water from his smarting eyes and turned to where Mauji had been.

Mauji was standing in the frothing water, grinning. He had a monster eel clasped firmly in his hands. The eel was whipping madly against his young body but he held on – the victor! Doonda shook the water off his head and let out a mock roar of rage. Mauji laughed and pranced in the water – proud, full of life and vitality. Bishnoo looked on indulgently – he adored the youngster.

That was when the attack came.

As Doonda watched Mauji splash exuberantly in water, he noticed a green shadow behind his young friend. At first it looked like a shoal of fish but as it got nearer, he could make out the unmistakable sharp chequers of a crocodile’s scaly back. He still wasn’t sure if it was a ghariyal or a magar and that split second of uncertainty proved fatal.

Just behind Mauji, a huge jaw snapped open: pink tongue, white teeth and protuberant eyes. This was not a harmless ghariyal but a big-sized magar machch hungry for flesh. Doonda screamed a warning but Mauji didn’t hear him above the din he was creating. He thought it was another game Doonda was playing. He laughed even louder and moved deeper into water, challenging Doonda to catch him. By now, even Bishnoo had spotted the magar. He too started shouting. Mauji grinned. He knew that Bishnoo was Doonda’s friend. Mauji waved the eel triumphantly above his head.

That was when he felt the first bite of the crocodile. The cavernous jaws snapped at his waist. The jagged teeth sunk deep into Mauji’s flesh – tearing open the boy’s taut stomach. The jaws clenched tight – seemingly splitting his torso into two.

For a fraction of a moment, Mauji looked surprised, staring at his own body being torn apart. He dropped the eel and tried to pry open the magar’s jaws. The giant amphibian let go of Mauji’s waist and slid under water to attack his legs. A fresh swirl of red sprang from under the river. The magar started pulling the boy down, dragging him away from the shore. Mauji was still conscious and started screaming.

Mauji was screaming, calling out to Doonda – his hero – for help. Doonda felt helpless and impotent. But, as the crocodile started to drag the boy away from the bank, trailing a cloud of red froth in its wake, Doonda reacted. He took a leap towards his friend and caught hold of his flaying hands. He pulled hard, fighting against the might of the crocodile. It was like trying to pull out a banyan tree from the earth. Nothing happened.

Bishnoo called out to Doonda and hurled his kapi across the frothing water to him. But this action distracted Doonda and he let go of Mauji’s hands. When he turned back he found that the magar had once again changed its hold and its jaws were now fixed on the boy’s chest. Doonda could hear a soft crunch as Mauji’s ribcage was crushed. A fresh stream of blood mingled in the churning water.

Doonda gave a jerk to the handle of the battle-axe and gripped it better for striking. He aimed at the bulging neck of the crocodile, calculated its movements and struck. His strike was swift and powerful – slicing through air with a shrill whine and ending in a dull thump. He had hit with all his might. The head flew off.

But it wasn’t the crocodile’s head.

With immense horror, Doonda realized that the magar had suddenly turned and it was Mauji’s neck that he had struck. The boy’s screaming head was sliced off by the master stroke of Doonda’s kapi. The headless torso was dragged away by the crocodile into Damuda leaving behind only red ripples and bits of floating flesh.

Mauji’s severed head bobbed briefly on water like a coconut shell before sinking. Doonda retreated backwards to the shore trying to scream but no sound came out. At last, he was out of water and down on the sandy shore – retching and sobbing. Bishnoo held him in a tight embrace. There was nothing they could do.

Biju had watched the entire scene with a strange detachment. He now understood what the bongas had wanted of them. What Biju could not comprehend, the bongas had ensured – blood unto water – water mingling with flesh. He was relieved. Damuda had claimed its sacrifice. The village would prosper.

On the dry sand, Doonda wept.

July 1830

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Bipin Roy Choudhury pulled on the hookah pensively in the veranda of his haveli on the outskirts of Kishanganj – the newly developed cantonment town of Jankampanee. He was a stately man of about thirty-five with thin, drooping moustaches, a sallow complexion and the slightly bulbous eyes of Dhakkai Bengalis.

The large, embroidered cloth fan fluttered limply above them in the still, humid air of a monsoon evening, tirelessly pulled by a servant-boy. The dozen or so lanterns and shaded candle lights burnt brightly with an occasional sizzle as an insect dived into the liquid heat of a flame. His fine, muslin kurta, exquisitely wrinkled on the sleeves clung to his slightly overweight body as he leaned on the white bolsters of the low divan.

In a semi circle around him sat his guests for the evening: Kishan Chand Jaiswal – the prosperous cloth merchant of Hazareebaug mandi, Mohammad Ali Naik – a trader of horses and spices from Oudh and Deyal Singh, a gigantic Sikh from Patiala who traded in grain, weapons and dry fruits from Baloochistan.

The low wooden tripods kept next to each guest were laden with kebabs, fruits, and fine European wine. A servant stood behind each guest and watched his every move: filling a glass, handing out a piece of succulent meat or offering a moist and fragrant towel to wipe hands or mouth every now and then.

Bipin Roy was one of the richest and most powerful zamindars of Chotanagpur owning more than a thousand acres of land, a thriving timber business and a fleet of a dozen river barges on the Ganga and the Damuda that plied on hire to local traders like Kishan Chand. Today, he had called a council to discuss the growing menace of the tribals – particularly the Hos, Kols, and the Santals. These primitive people – the adivasi tribes – refused to integrate with the modern commercial world and created all sorts of troubles for traders, land owners and businessmen.

But, despite their ignorance, it made sense to deal with the adivasis because they valued their assets according to their need for them and not on the basis of its intrinsic value. So, it was not uncommon for a Santal farmer to pledge a precious tola or ten grams of gold for merely borrowing a couple of bullocks for the sowing season. But, if the animals fell ill or turned out to be unproductive, they would simply walk up to the creditor and demand that their gold be returned. If it wasn’t, the tribals resorted to almost anything from robbery to murder. They didn’t quite understand the system of collaterals.

Bipin Roy was of old blood. His great grandfather’s father used to be the diwan, or chancellor of the Raja of Panchet – a position that was retained by the family for three generations. In 1795 the Raja had fallen in arrears of revenue due to the East India Company and was forced to sell a part of his estate. Bipin Roy’s grandfather – an astute man – had the capital and the sense to buy out a part of it at rather low rates. Being the diwan of the Raja meant that he was also the keeper of accounts. He continued to serve the Raja and bestowed the estate upon his young son – Bipin Roy’s father. The zamindari had passed into the capable hands of Bipin Roy after his father decided to renounce family life and settle in the hill town of Rishikesh. Bipin Roy ranked amongst the highest and oldest of landed aristocracy of Chotanagpur.

His companions that evening were basically commoners – rich traders and entrepreneurs who had only recently acquired thikas or jagirs – regal mandates that bestowed rights to collect land revenue from cultivators or share croppers. Both Deyal Singh and Mohammad Ali had acquired the jagirs of a few villages from Kunwar Harnath Sahi, the wayward younger brother of the Maharaja of Chotanagpur, Jagannath Shah Deo.

Bipin Roy knew how it was done only too well. At first, a trader would flood the maharaja, his family members or concubines with expensive gifts of brocades, Arab stallions, pashmina shawls from Kashmir to get some trading concessions or permission to set up warehouses or shops. Over time, the maharaja would get hooked to the exotic merchandise and the traders would offer generous line of credit. But they kept meticulous accounts and charged exorbitant rates of interest. Once the amount reached a substantial figure, they would express some urgent business need and request the maharaja to pay up immediately. Often, the maharaja or his concubines would not have ready money. The trader would then offer to accept a jagir in lieu of the money, which the maharaja would grant happily.

It felt like a profitable solution to the ruler since jagir endowed land and cultivation rights on the jagirdar but in return the ‘king’ received an annuity from the jagirdars. So, on the surface, it appeared that the trader was just taking a right of usage from the Maharaja against which he would actually be required to pay an annuity. Instead of the raja repaying his loan, it was the trader who would be paying annual charges to the raja. Most rajas were either too naive or too desperate to avoid that trap.

What the rulers didn’t realize was that the grant of a jagir created a source of income for the traders in terms of the revenues generated, the taxes imposed and the exclusive rights of cultivation obtained. Most of the trader-jagirdars struck a deal with the Honourable Company and forced farmers to grow indigo, jute or opium on that land. They often imposed whimsical taxes and even controlled the little surplus that the poor farmers managed to generate by controlling the rates in the wholesale mandis or trading bourses.

These traders were not connected to the local people and therefore felt no obligation towards the villages they controlled. They were mostly migrants from Punjab, Bengal or Oudh who looked upon land as merely an asset and a means of generating more profit. They neither had nor desired any understanding of the people who survived on those lands.

Bipin Roy was smart enough to realize that it was a potentially dangerous attitude. He knew the Hos, the Santals, and the Kols well. These were ancient people who were rooted in the soil. For them, land and forests were an integral part of their existence. They were simple people but guarded their heritage and culture savagely. Pushed beyond a point they were always ready to kill or die.

Bipin Roy had grown up in Chotanagpur. True, he did his own bit of manipulation and subtle extortion, but he was never rash or blatant. Not that he really cared for the adivasis. They were more like animals than human beings. He was a prudent man and just as one doesn’t unnecessarily provoke lions, so also he kept his distance from the tribes. But, these new-comers were different. They didn’t see the dangers. They were the real dikus – outsiders. Bipin Roy had almost as much contempt for them as he had disdain for the adivasis. If he had his way, he would banish both from the fertile and beautiful country of Chotanagpur.

But, alas! He had to do business with the dikus. They were his channels to the markets of Calcutta, Patna, Benaras, Lucknow, Dilli, and Lahore. He couldn’t afford to antagonise them. Their trade provided him business for his fleet of river barges. He traded his timber through them. They were in league with the firangis and Bipin Roy’s heart told him that the firangis will rule India one day. The Kampanee Bahadur was destined to be the next Mughal.

‘Choudhury sahib,’ Kishan Chand said in his slightly hoarse and effeminate voice, leaning to a side. ‘We have to do something about the adivasis. Did you hear about what happened in Sonepur?’

‘No. What happened? I thought that the firangis in Chattra were keeping a tight control on Sonepur pargana,’ Bipin Roy said, taking a sip from his goblet.

‘I am not so sure. Last month, Bindrai Manki from Lankah village – it’s in Tamar area – attacked Burju Jaiswal’s home with about twenty cohorts. Burju is my nephew and looks after my property in Sonepur. It appears that Bindrai had borrowed a pair of buffaloes from Burju last year against the deposit of half a tola of gold. You know how accommodating we Jaiswals are – Burju lent the buffaloes on the condition that Bindrai pays four annas a month for them. But for the next few months, he didn’t hear from Bindrai. Of course, Burju had the security deposit of five grams of gold – enough to buy twenty buffaloes – but he had lent the animals in good faith. These tribals don’t care for business principles. When my nephew sent a messenger to Lankah, Bindrai simply said that he will only be able to pay the rentals for the animals after Dussehra – when he sells his crop in the mandi. He also told the messenger that Burju already had the security of half a tola of gold and therefore, there was no need to make the payment immediately. You see how unfair that was.’

Bipin Roy nodded, feigning understanding. He could sense what would have happened, but he wanted Kishan Chand to tell his story. He saw both Mohammad Ali and Deyal Singh listening attentively too. There was no point in telling Kishan Chand that it was his nephew Burju who was being unfair. Why couldn’t he have waited for another five months, till Bindrai got his sale proceeds from the mandi?

‘What could poor Burju do?’ Kishan Chand said with an aggrieved air. ‘He has to give his accounts to my munshi every three months. You know my munshi – he is a stickler for proper accounting. So, Burju took a force of about fifty hired musclemen from Gaya and seized six cows, four buffaloes, Bindrai and his brother Singhrai and brought them to Sonepur. But these bastards – they can really be stealthy. Both Bindrai and his brother escaped. Not only that – they then went and complained to Koomera Singh, the Raja of Bandgaon. And, instead of arresting Bindrai for escaping from Burju’s custody, Koomera actually gave him a company of thirty-five soldiers for protection.’

That was a very sensible thing for Koomera to have done, Bipin Roy thought. But he kept an impassive face.

‘With those men, Bindrai raided my nephew’s house and took away a pair of sturdy bullocks and two of his retainers. It really was too much.’ Kishan Chand frowned and shook his head sadly, stuffing a fistful of roasted cashews into his mouth. ‘When Burju informed me about this, I immediately contacted our friend Mohammad Ali here because I know he has a large warehouse in Sonepur where he keeps a small contingent of security men from Aligarh.’

‘And what did Mohammad Ali do for you?’ Bipin Roy asked – dreading the answer. He put his glass aside.

‘I am grateful to him for taking prompt action,’ Kishan Chand spoke through a mouthful of cashews. ‘Bindrai and his violent brother were apprehended within a week. In the meantime, a caravan of Deyal Singh’s, transporting almonds and gunpowder from Patna to Mursheedabad had halted at his warehouse in Sonepur. So, I requested him for help – those Sikh warriors are efficient. Deyal’s younger brother, Kirpal Singh was leading the security contingent. He took a few men to Bindrai’s house in Lankah with the idea of driving a message home. They didn’t find much there but found two of Bindrai’s younger sisters.’

Bipin Roy winced and placed his head on his hands. From here on, he could imagine the course Kishan Chand’s wretched tale was going to take. He never understood the need to force sex when one could buy as much of it as one wanted.

‘You know how libidinous these young men from the north are,’ Kishan Chand continued, wiping his oily fingers on the clean table cloth. Bipin Roy noticed it with disgust as the uncouth trader carried on with his story. ‘Kirpal took a fancy to the girls and took them to Sonepur. Can’t blame him – some of these Santal women are really taut and luscious. As it happened, Mohammad Ali’s men also had the same idea and reached Lankah soon after Kirpal had left. They only found Bindrai’s two wives. Both were apparently quite pretty – although one of them was pregnant. So, the men took them away to Sonepur. They must have enjoyed Bindrai’s wives on the way to Sonepur and I think they may have been a bit overenthusiastic. So, reportedly, the pregnant woman died on the way. The older one survived. When she reached Sonepur, she was bleeding heavily from between her legs and from her behind but my dear nephew took care of her and got her treated by the local vaidya.’

There was nothing Bipin Roy could say to that so he retrieved his glass and took one long swallow. It fortified him for what was to come.

‘And do you think Bindrai was grateful for that? Or his crazy brother Singhrai?’ Kishan Chand asked in anger. ‘When Burju sent his wife to meet him in the cattle yard where he was kept a prisoner, the man went mad. He strangled two of our guards and escaped with his brother. Of course, as a punishment, Burju gave Bindrai’s wife to his servants for their enjoyment. I am happy she died within two days. God has his own ways to punish bad people and Bindrai must be realising that now.’

God has