KABIGANGA : Manikuntala Bhattacharjya's Story

Kabiganga! It seems like a long era has passed since I first heard this name. To be precise I was in lower primary school.
My father was an honest civil servant and had a reputation for his impenetrable honesty. People used to come to our house along with different kind of gifts hoping that bribing him would benefit them. But never did he accept any illegal gratification, whatsoever .
On that day, a man came with two cylindrical bamboo containers (baanhor-sunga) when I was playing in our garden. The containers, with whatever they were contained of, made my father very annoyed. After some failed efforts to explain that it was a token of love and not bribe to my father, the man went back along with those bamboo containers.
A couple of hours later on that very day, I met the person again, while I was out with my bicycle. In those days, cycling was my newfound hobby and I used to go to the road everyday with Raghu, our domestic help accompanying me all the time.
The man stopped me by holding the handle of my bicycle and got me some chana from the chanawala who was sitting under the tree.
“What did you bring in those bamboo cylinders?” I asked him.
“Curd, very thick and pure curd I had brought for you, but your father refused it. So I gave it to a relative by the name of Kabiganga”.
“Kabinganga? Who is Kabiganga?”
“He is my favourite poet, as holy as the river Ganga. Articulating a little bit of his poetry in our entire life is no less than a gangasnaan1. In school, I always tell my students about the sacredness of his poetry and the thoughts he evokes through his poetry”
“Where does he live? What does he do?”
“You will come to know someday”, the man smiled affectionately. He looked at the setting sun and said, “Go home now. Get fresh, do your prayer and sit for study”
***
Sitting on my study table, I started thinking about Kabiganga. I had not heard anything about him ever before.
In those days we had a baby at our home. She was my younger sister. My mother was so busy with her that she had no time to look at me even if my blanket slips from me while sleeping even in those chilled winter nights. I had to sleep with my father. In the same room, mother used to sleep on a different bed, hugging my sister the whole night with great care, as she was a very precious piece of jewel to her.
The sound of breast-feeding had spread in the room. In the little light of the zero power bulbs I looked at them and felt sad. I tried to console myself saying that it also had happened in case of me when I was of my sister’s age. Yes, it happened indeed. In spite of this consolation, my eyes could not help bursting. Father, probably realising my unhappiness, said, “Move this side, I’ll tell you stories”
My sadness disappeared as soon as father started the story. Stories of the universe and the mysterious world under the sea were always my top favourites and he also told me stories from the Purana and the Upanishada. Rabindranath Tagore was his hero. Father used to get very excited while telling me stories about Tagore’s real life incidents. On that night, he explained a poem of Tagore which describes a night of thunderstorm with the flashes of lightening. That night was also rainy with lightening and thunder.
I was listening to my father with interest, but suddenly my mind flew to a different direction.
“Father, who is Kabiganga?”
“Kabiganga? Who?”
“The poet! The sacred man, Kabiganga!”
“Poet? Who told you about him?”
I did not say anything. In the morning I had noticed his annoyance.
After sometime father said, “Kabiganga, may be the pen name of a new poet, I don’t know him. Ok, listen, there are some more beautiful poems by Rabindranath than this one. Grow up first, you should read them.” Father was telling me something after that also. But I had lost interest. My curiosity for Kabiganga was growing from within. “I have to know him. I must have to meet the man again. In which school does he work?” I was talking to myself.
***
Almost after two weeks, I met the man again. I was with Raghu.
“Do you remember me, uncle?”
“Why not? But don’t call me uncle, call me sir. I have lots of student like you. I teach them to be honest, the way to lead a life worthy of living with high thinking…”
“Like Kabiganga?”
The moment he heard the name of Kabiganga, his eyes became brighter. Holding my hands he said, “Let’s go to that bridge, I’ll tell you about the river. This river is yet to reach the height of the mighty Ganga.”
Raghu did not allow me to go. I felt embarrassed noticing the uneasiness on the face of the man.
Raghu was extremely obedient to my parents and the people they try to avoid were not more than creatures that can be compared to insects for him. He was unbearable for me.
“Why are you losing your temper? World is full of all kinds of people. You should not come here for cycling”, Raghu advised me like a proper guardian.
“I had to talk to sir.”
“Sir? Who? That man? He is mentally imbalanced, you know? Every morning he scolds the river, tries to control the grass with a stick.”
“He is a teacher.”
“Teacher? Where does he teach?”
“In a school.”
“May be, but you should not go near him any more. You can’t be sure that he is not a kidnapper.”
It was not a good feeling for me. I am usually not scared of the kinds of kidnappers and all. It might be the result of excessive listening of some heroic and brave stories from my father.
Sitting on the table, my thoughts started revolving again, centering Kabiganga. Gradually, they turned towards sir. Oh Sir! Why do you scold the river and the grass? Why do you behave abnormally? Suddenly I felt pity for him.
***
Few days later, I met him again. This time I was with my father. “He is my sir, should I go and come back quickly?” Father did not say anything. Probably he could not identify him as in those days I had many teachers of extra curricular classes besides my schoolteachers.
“Where were you Alakananda, it’s been a long time?” sir asked me quite affectionately. But, I was dumbstruck. This is not my name. Can’t he remember me?
“How are you? Doing your study properly?” he asked again.
“Sir, tell me about Kabiganga”, without thinking for a second I came to my point of interest.
“He is my favourite poet.”
“Where does he live?”
“At the bank of the river”
“What does he do there?”
“There we have some farmland and a beautiful bamboo platform along with a staircase right in the middle of the field, also popularly known as tongi ghor. He lives there. If you want, I can take you there.”
I looked back at my father. He was busy talking to somebody.
“I’ll go.” I whispered in sir’s ears.
“Really?”
I nodded.
“Ok, then be ready tomorrow. I will go to the market to sell some pumpkins and take you along”.
***
Next day, was my sister’s Annaprasanna. My house was full of relatives and well wishers. Everybody was enjoying the meal together with great fun. I was restless.
I saw him coming with a thhela (pushcart). “Sit. My daughter loves to sit here.” Sir was perfectly dressed like a thhelawalla with a turban of gamocha and a sleeveless kurta. It was not as easy to sit on a thhela as to sit in a rickshaw. I was excited. I was going to meet Kabiganga… the sacred man, as holy as the river Ganga. He is a man of high thinking. What does ‘high thinking’ actually mean! I was confused.
“Sir, don’t you like this river?”
“Yes, you are right. I always scold this river, but she never listen to me.”
“How will she listen to you? She does not have ears!”
“What are you saying? She has everything… hands, legs, ears, eyes… everything. She has life. She is flowing endlessly only because she is a living being. Otherwise she could have remained static like that rock.”
“But why do you scold her?”
“She carries dirtiness. Well, that is also acceptable to an extent. But the flood she creates is unforgivable. Aren’t you aware of the pains and sufferings of the villagers after every monsoon! I just tell her to be calm, be gentle. No, she never listens to me.”
Whatever he was telling was becoming unclear to me. “Why do you beat the grass?”
“They are very impolite. They won’t allow you to play in the ground without creating a nuisance, bothering about them. They will stick to your clothes.”
Is he crazy! Suddenly Raghu’s words came to my mind. He told me that sir had some mental problem. I felt very uneasy. “Where is your school?” I asked him.
“I have many schools. One is here, in this riverbank. The principal is Kabiganga”
I started sweating. Does he have a single human being to be called his student!
“Hold carefully, we will go faster.” That was a slope. Sir was running with the thhela, letting the wind to touch me all over. I was thrilled.
“How far is it, sir?”
“Here it is. We have arrived. You get down and come with me.”
It was a beautiful farmland full of growing pulses. “One, two, three”, sir folded his dhoti a bit and started running. He was laughing like a child. I followed him. The silent riverbank suddenly got a festive mood with our laughter. Filled with delight I followed him on the staircase which leaded towards the tongi ghar, with pure ecstasy filling up my heart.
It was a new world for me. Under the open sky, among the lively crops, the river … I felt something strange. Something amazingly beautiful! There was nobody to rule over me. I was free!
I took a deep breath. “Call out through this pipe”, sir gave me a hollow piece of bamboo.
“But, where is Kabiganga? Where is your school, he must be there.”
“This field is my school, crops are my student. Kabiganga is the principal. Can you see the cloud? He is there. Ok, you call him with this pipe, he will answer.”
This time, I felt really nervous. Is he alright? He stood up spreading both his hands and shouted looking at the sky, “Oh mighty Kabiganga, make me as big as you, so that I can laugh freely, I can think for the welfare of this world, I can be as holy as you. Kabiganga, pour me with a little bit of your poetry. Bless me. See, somebody has come to meet you. She is as pure as you are. She is Alakananda.”
I was looking at sir with a mixed feeling, was it nervousness, fear, curiosity or happiness; I did not know. He whispered, “Call him through this pipe.”
I called. The echo came back as the answer.
“Good. Now tell quickly if you have any anger or sadness.”
I hesitantly said, “I love my mother very much, but, after my sister has come to this world, I feel ignored. This is my agony sadness. Reason of my anger is Raghu. He does not treat people equally. He cares for some of my friends; but some, who are not from a very well to do families; he even tries to prevent them from entering into our house.”
“Now you tell what do you want to be when you’ll grow up?”
“I want to be independent. I want to make everybody happy.”
“Tell more, tell more.”
“I want to be great, like you. I like to live here, in this tree house.”
“Now, shout for three times.”
I did so. He also did the same. Chewing a few peanuts from the field we returned home.
***
That was a different environment at home. It was crowded. I thought it was because of the invitees who came for the annaprasanna. But the policeman talking to my father helped me to realise the actual scene.
“Come here,” father called me as soon as I got down from the thhela. “Take him with you,” he told the policeman pointing out my sir.
I was shivering with fear. I was not repentant at all, but I was crying. I was worried about sir. My father was annoyed when he brought those bamboo cylinders; I had no idea what my father would do to him when sir had taken out his daughter. The policeman clipped him with handcuffs and took him away.
That night, I told my father, “Today you don’t need to tell me stories. But, tell me one thing. Is my sir really mad? He is so sweet; he has a tremendous sense of happiness. We had shouted through a bamboo pipe looking at the sky. We shared everything with God. We played in the field. The farmland is his school and the crops, his student. Kabiganga is the principal. He lives in the cloud, like God”
“Please get some sleep.”
“No, I won’t. Please tell me. You’ll have to tell me.”
“Yes, he is mad. You have seen his school, the students yourself.”
“Oh father, how can you say like that? Your Rabindranath also used to teach the railing of his veranda assuming them his students. He also punished them with a stick.”
Father pulled me closer to him. He was silent. But I could feel the warm touch of his fingers moving on my head.
Next day, I was not allowed to go to the school. The person behind the clouds also could feel my suffering of being house arrested, I guessed. My mother suddenly became expressive about her love for me and had started caring me like she does to my sister. At an intimate moment, she asked me if my sir had let me sit on his lap. She said, “Well, he did tell you that you were wearing a nice dress and wanted to see if your undergarments were also matching, right?”
“No, of course not. Does any teacher say such things?” I screamed.
Mother was speechless. In the evening I asked Raghu whether sir was still in the police station. “No, he had been sent to Tezpur, where there is a mental hospital”, Raghu was well informed about that.
After four days of that incident I was sent to my grandfather’s place with my mother and sister and then to a new city where my father had been transferred. It has been many years after that incident; but I still remember it as if it happened yesterday. I cried a lot for sir and Kabiganga. I had called him from the rooftop; sometimes spreading both my hands I talked to my bathroom shower. Sitting on the wet floor of the bathroom I said, “Sir, I miss you!”
I can still feel the existence of Kabiganga. I still nurture the teachings of sir with the hope of a life worthy of living. I still think of an unknown image with a secret desire to achieve a gangasnaan!

-----------------------------------------------------------

NOTES:
Ganga snaan: Taking a bath in the river Ganga to purify one’s body and soul
Annaprasanna: The ceremony of feeding a child the first meal

----------------------------------------------------------
** Written by Manikuntala Bhattacharjya and Translated from the original Assamese story ‘Kabiganga’ by Puja Rajkumari