Translated from the original Kui; “Memoirs of a Kondh in Konark”, by K. Kasturi. Culled from a series of conversations held over a period of six months with the famous tribal leader Rojalin Kondh, instrumental in the rebuilding of the Konark Temple, this is the first such written account of a Kui. Basic facts have not been tampered with, but some liberties have been taken in embellishing the account to make it more reader-friendly. Surya Dev Mandir – Konark
It is midnight and I am wide awake. Outside my hut the moon is in full bloom, the only flower in the sky today, so bright that its lustre envelops the whole firmament, the numerous stars which usually abound are not to be seen with the naked eye. The sea waves rise up and up hugging the moonbeams tightly on the one night that seems to come very rarely. As though a humongous flashlight in space is directing my steps on the ground, I walk softly, almost blindfoldedly, like a cat who knows its whereabouts, especially when the lights are out. My eyes can see only and only the silhouette of the temple ruins from afar. I am drawn to them each night and I follow the call. I have not slept in months, perhaps years. Perhaps I sleep when I am awake, perhaps this is not the reality but a dream. How do I know which is which! Do I care? All I want is for the Lord to have his own abode, the way it once was, full of splendour and magnificence. The grandeur of which brought ships to crash against the seawalls, the fame of which brought the marauders all the way across the continent to this Eastern shore. I float in my dreamlike waking state towards Konark, that corner where Surya resides and is yet to rise, for it is not yet daylight.
I have had trouble sleeping ever since I witnessed Swamiji’s murder. They came and sprayed bullets into a frail chest and left with a stern warning. Those of us who know them intimately realise that they cannot be taken lightly. This was the ninth and successful attempt on his life. He left his body, but he is still with us. None of us have forgotten, nor have we forgiven. We never will. They threw their pamphlets around and took pictures so that they could threaten us later if we went against their command. I am one of the reasons he was killed. I will have to live with this burden as long as Ma Taarini wants me to be on this earth. I am paying the price everyday, bit by bit.
I pick the stones from the rubble muttering a Kui prayer, it is directed towards the Sun God, I am confident that He understands me. Full moon nights are my favourite. I can accomplish a lot more. I have so far cleared twenty-two rubbles, a tiny space has been created in this section which has been cordoned off by the ASI, but who checks at night! No one. And who checks by the day either, no one! I am the only one who knows every stone, rock and rubble that has filled up this deul. Swamiji would tell us how it was blown up by the Britishers or was it the Portuguese? So many of them come now to take photos and selfies with the wheels of time, they sit by my hut, drink the tea that I make, and buy my products. I speak to them in the English I learnt from Esther akka, and they are surprised.
Why, can’t a Ku girl from Belghar speak the white man’s tongue? They are spellbound by the wonder of the architecture and the brains that imagined this whole temple, the concept of time and its expression that is enshrined here in stone. I can hear them describe it excitedly to their parents, lovers, teachers, friends over the phone, over their computers. Yet, they are in a state of disbelief when they hear me speak in English! A human can carve marvels in stone, and a human can learn to speak eloquently in any tongue, even if a tribal.
I must have recounted the story of Kalapahad and how he became the first person to destroy this temple, many many times. He was the first musalmaan to desecrate this spectacular astronomical structure, there were many after him who followed his example. Time and again they came here with hate in their hearts towards sublime beauty and poetry, they came with ignorance of both science and technology, they came with raw might seething against the perfection of the pagan, and they struck with their hammers to break not build. I can understand why they wanted to smash all this. It is not easy to manage envy, or jealousy even. They eat away at all the goodness in the heart, without a second thought.
And then to see all the maithuna figurines! That must have definitely angered them into action, even if they had no such intention when they came here on their horses screaming jihad. I remember the sermons that the pastor gave us in the church deploring the sinful Hindus, their vulgar and hungry ways where the body was concerned. Sin. sin. sin. That is the word I heard constantly in those days. A Christian or a Muslim, for them the ways of nature are haraam. I had found it so funny when Esther akka had tried to teach me these concepts. That part of the bible I never could really appreciate nor understand.
My hut-shop is my haven during the day where I meet people from all over the world. They send me gifts from their countries when they reach home, thankful for an honest chat, a sincere story. And for my embroidery, my baskets, the crafts that I sell to keep afloat and anonymous. All the money I make with my hands goes into the bank account that I started recently. Volunteers came and showed us how, and I took out all the money from my two jholas, notes rolled up and secured in plastic, and handed them over at the counter to a pleasant lady. I am happy that they are in a safe place now, and that I don’t have to worry anymore if they will be stolen. I am saving it for the deul, when Surya Deb’s house is re-built, I will provide the roof for him. Just as Swamiji had dreamed.
During the night I am a different person. That is the time when I am paying back for my wrong deeds. That is the time when I do my duty towards Swamiji. He gives me strength and keeps me going. I dream of the day when the shikhara is back in its place, but first I must clear the stones and the debris. I have developed muscles in my arms over the past few months hammering the big rocks, carrying away the smaller ones to the outer perimeters. I am not scared. Ma Taarini is always with me. She is kaalratri and scares away whichever bhoot pishaach approaches me with evil intention. It was Swamiji’s ardent wish to see the Konark temple in its full glory, restored for worship, and I hope I can make that happen. I was the cause of his death, I want to be the cause of fulfilling his dream too.
It is not just me at night, I see a heavenly dancer among the ruins of the natya mandapa dancing in complete abandon. I hear her anklets, the clinking of her glass bangles, the thumping of her feet in absolute rhythm and precision. It is as though she is providing me musical company and allaying my fears if any. She looks ecstatic and ethereal. Of course, she is a ghost. Or an apsara. She always bows respectfully to me when I enter, so much honour she accords me, I feel shy. What a cultured lady, why can’t the day time people behave so too? Her refined manner enthralled me and I pondered over her identity while clearing away the rubble for many weeks. Until one day at the Chandrabhaga Dance Festival, I saw a poster, ‘in honour of the great Odissi guru, the late Smt.Sanjukta Panigrahi…’ aha! So that was her identity. Why was her spirit still stuck here in Konark? Perhaps she too had some promises to fulfil, like me. Hearing about her at the beach festival, I feel privileged to be her only human audience every night, in her encounter with the gods.
It has not been an easy transition at all. For a Ku like me to find solace in the harsh sun on the beach is not a holiday as you might foolishly assume. Some tourists look at me, at my basket weaving and embroidery, with kind patronizing eyes. I can sense their pitiful glances piercing through my back. They are surprised that I can speak Hindi well and even manage a bit of English. They do not make an attempt to learn even a few Odia words while visiting, such is their arrogance and ignorance. I doubt if they can completely comprehend that I am a Khond girl who is alive despite everything, and making a living against all odds, that their one purchase will help me keep alive the memory of my people, my community, my gods. That their validation of this Khond skill that I have will assuage the terrible guilt I carry with me everywhere, as though pregnant with it. Belghar
My village is Belghar, near the hills of Daringbadi which you might have heard of, it is not a tribal name, it was named after a Britisher called Daring. Who either lived there or ran away from the plains to our hills during the frightening summers. I can well appreciate why. I feel the same in April, May, June…here in Konrak, although I am close to Bura Pennu who created the earth and all of us on it, I want to go back to my mud and bamboo house with its palm leaf thatched roof, nestled in the forests with waterfalls, to sit at my mother’s feet and hum leisurely, while she combs my hair and swoops it inside into a side bun, decorating it with various clips, looking at me lovingly and admiringly. I want to be able to see her tattooed face with her three nose rings covering her ever-smiling teeth as would the evening clouds the moon. I dream of the silver glistening in her ears with rows and rows of ear-rings that shine like fish swimming in formation, while we play in the Doluri waters. I hear my father’s laughter as a distant echo, as he drinks palm wine and leisurely pours a cup for my mother. But, I have no option. I am a key witness to a political murder, I know more than I should, and I can never go back.
It is a miracle that our village survived the missionaries. Around us every village had 20-30 churches, some villages had churches even when there were no Christians. There is a lot of money in this business. When poor villagers have problems, the church is ready to give money, send kids to school, pay for medical expenses…promising them a government job….and suddenly there is one more person in the church. This way the pastor makes money both from the villager as well as his foreign master. A lot of these churches have loudspeakers that blare anti-tribal speeches daily. They are very mean and unhappy people. Those who cannot let others be, are. Therefore our village council decided to not allow any foreign fellow or pastor into our territory, we put up signs at the entrance into our areas that Christains are not allowed, and this created a huge hue and cry.
It became big news and we were taunted for it, politicians and other leaders came by to ask us to remove the sign but we are tribals, Scheduled Tribes, and have a lot of legal rights in India, and therefore they could not force us to remove the board altogether, though we did have to move it a bit into the interior. Anyway, no one comes so deep into the jungles and hills except for the missionaries, the evangelicals. Or the poachers.
Given this history of my village and how the village council took such a brave stance against any conversion from ancient ways of life, my decision to marry a Scheduled Caste Pano, did not go down well in my village, and I was ex-communicated. That is also why I can never go back….and my parents, even though they can come and live with me here in Konark, they will not, as they will not be happy in the plains, in the heat, by the ocean. They are hill people, they are forest dwellers, and they hunt. The very thought of them buying vegetables and meat from a shop hurts my heart, I cannot let them suffer for my mistakes, although they already are…they are probably the laughing stock in the village – parents of a daughter who married far below her, that too to a man who sold himself out for a few rupees.
It is not that there is any sudden increase in respect after conversion either, churches are always separate for us tribal converts, we cannot hope to be on par with the city people. Or with the foreigners who look down on us for being backward, greedy for selling our souls, for having no self-respect, and prey on us for money and lust. My husband, foolish that he was, he thought he was climbing up in life! While the Hindus, of course, cut off relations with us for leaving our ancestral faith, our traditional modes of worship, and customary beliefs, for something that is not of this land. Either way, we are caught …..the best times were when we were left alone, when no one knew of us nor ‘discovered’ us…when no one spoke our language and we were free to be …with the elements and the animals and plants and birds and bees….such times may never return ….not for me … Daringbadi
We are tribals, vanavasis, and since our village was close to the Forest Department Guesthouse, it has always been visited by people from all over the world. I have always posed for pictures since I was a child. They come and look wide-eyed at everything, asking the same question again and again, saying the same phrase again and again…vaav vaav vaav…do you like it here, do you enjoy living here? Of course, we like it! This is our home, I wanted to tell them, but at that time we had no interpreters, and I did not yet speak anything but Kui. I lost my shyness slowly interacting with these tourists who were mostly well-meaning, they taught me to come out of my shell. Many came just to take pictures and go, but others brought us old second-hand clothes and blankets and distributed them among us. We would accept with gratitude and later, once they left, take them to the animal shed and leave them there to keep the sheep and buffaloes warm, which were getting ready for meria, our ritual sacrifice of animals. It is wrong to disrespect the guests and their gifts, perhaps for such an insulting act, we are being punished with one tragedy after another. Many came wanting to take videos of our way, of our women with their ornaments and hairdos, some to document our way of rainwater collection and taps, which we fashion out of bamboo. All this is simple really, very natural, I do not understand why there is so much praise for something so normal…
Ever since my first visit to the weekly market in Daringbadi, I would pester my mother about going there again, and then again. She would give me permission reluctantly saying that the ways of the city would spoil me. She was right. I started disliking being restricted to my small village only and wanted to see more of the world. There is a rope bridge across the river that you must cross to get out of our village, it is a single rope on which we very carefully tread one foot behind another while sometimes holding a cycle, sometimes animals, or a baby, to cross over to the opposite bank. One day a TV channel came to film it, and soon, one after another so many people came with cameras to show to the world the uniqueness of our village and its now-famous bridge. It was very strange to me. What was so special about this one rope bridge? I too gave interviews and we all sat and watched it at the Forest Department Guesthouse when it was telecast on TV. Everyone told my mother then itself that I was too big now to be happy staying in the village only. They were right.
I was always excited about learning more of the world, of others, how could I be satisfied with being confined to my village and my forest only? It was exciting for me to see the Bondas. Have you ever seen them? They are covered from head to foot in beads! They are the real tribals..more tribal than we are. They do not speak our language, no Hindi or Telugu even. They are very innocent and very trusting of everyone. We Kuis are not easily deceived by the ways of the world but the Bondas need protection. I shooed away a few men who came from the city to visit the Hill Tower, who had stopped by at the market and started troubling a few pretty Bonda women. They wanted to take photos. It is as though we are zoo animals for them. The city people are very rude and think of us as primitive and poor and pitiable. If only they knew how well we live. We eat and drink healthy, we live with nature, in nature’s embrace. All the animals and plants are our family, we sing and dance and dress up, put flowers in our hair and watch the moon and sunrise. We live the life that the city folk dream of for their holidays and they have the temerity to laugh at our ways.
So when I was promised a job at the Tribal Museum in Daringbadi I accepted without taking permission from my parents, excited to be a part of the bigger wider world. The whole community came to see me off when I started on my journey into the outside, which was but a few kilometres by walk. My job was simple, I had to dress up in traditional clothes and sit in the museum and do our embroidery that my mother taught me. Tourists would come and take pictures, buy a trinket or two, ask a few routine questions – name, family, siblings – and smile and leave. Sometimes they left money for me which I hid in the folds of my skirt until I went home and gave them to my mother with pride. She was always careless with it and left it here and there, and many times the flimsy notes flew away. It is not that she did not value my hard work, she did not know the value of the note. My mother, like the elders in my village, did not understand the outside world, or why I wanted to be away from them.
It was while working at the Tribal Museum that I encountered real outsiders; many many people from all over the country, sometimes from other countries too. I was very scared at first. I did not speak much, and when I did it was only Kui or Odia or a bit of Telugu, but slowly I started gaining confidence to speak Hindi, some phrases of English too. And that is how all my troubles started.
I deceived my parents when I started meeting him secretly by the Midubanda. We would walk up the dirt track and sit by the slippery rocks and eat warm badas that he would bring for me wrapped in an old Odia newspaper. Those came with green chillies which I loved to bite into, and he would ask me gently if I wanted one more. I was young and immature. I did not know of life beyond my village. It was because my parents trusted him that they let me talk to him and occasionally accompany him. We would take vegetables, meat, and handicrafts from our village to sell at the weekly haat at Daringbadi. He is a Pano, they speak Kui like us, he would visit our village and trade for us at the weekly market in Daringbadi. That is when I first saw him. He was a good man when I met him, he was honest too. But the greed of entering the modern world changed him, as it has so many people, including me.
Seeing that I was not just another tribal girl who was coy and naive about the ways of the world, the Baptist Mission Church sent one of their people to approach me, they handed me a bunch of bibles, and a wad of notes with a smile and asked me to go and talk to my people in my village. I was to teach them the superiority of Yeshu Prabhu. The greatness of the West being the proof that their god was better than ours. They would pay for schooling and also find us jobs they said. And we would no longer need to fear any government official as they would do our work for us – all the paperwork and bureaucratic work that is needed to be done when you apply for certain government schemes. Not to be outdone the Pentecostal Diocese also sent their representative to me offering double of whatever was being offered by the Baptists.
I did not like either of them as they made fun of my people and our ways. I was forced to attend a few of the church services where they abused our gods and encouraged us to break the murtis, and said that idol worship was evil, and that these were rakshasas not devas. They shouted from a podium at us, saying we must abandon our superstitions and come into the light! They talked of papam papam all the time. Our birth, our customs, our festivals, our beliefs, all was papam according to their Yeshu. I could not tolerate these constant insults. There were also many gullible and greedy people among us who lapped it up hungrily.
My husband was one such. He converted when they offered to pay for his education. They promised him a job too. He kept it a secret from me, if I knew I would not have agreed to marry him. But now my husband who became a Baptist without my knowledge goaded me to continue attendance at the churches as they gave away free rations and rice bags and money each time we showed up.
The ceremonies were all very funny and foolish. People jumping up and down, loud music and dancing for no reason, singing with strange words aaleloohaa aaleloohaa, it did nothing to my heart. I longed for our simple life in the village, dancing in groups, singing our folk songs, praising the mother earth, glorifying our ancestors and forest spirits. I could see what the churches were trying to do, they were breaking up families and communities. My husband’s parents were not given a decent cremation because he had converted and he refused to conduct their last rites calling it superstition. I fought with him all day that day and refused to speak to him, I was worried, would he do the same to me, if I died before him? What about our children? What would be their names, their beliefs? Would they be Christian too? He insisted that they would have to be. That is when I first thought of running away from our marital home in Daringbadi.
My husband had started beating me for being old fashioned and superstitious, for not following the ways of the church and not believing in Yeshu, he started kicking at the photo of Maa Taarini everytime I disobeyed him. Once I threw a pan at him, and he hit me, pushed me against the wall, and banged my head against it. I was bruised badly and my head was bleeding. I thought of the warm badas by the waterfall, all those good times and felt sad. What had changed? I was the same person. He began criticizing our old ways. He began laughing at my prayers to the forest spirits thanking them for the food…he said I was a fool to believe in all this mumbujumbu, that is the word the pastor used in the church. I was stunned at his transformation. Can money change a person’s mindset so much? How does it make him forget what he once revered? Before I get pregnant I must leave I thought. I could not go back to our village as I had married a Pano when my parents had warned me against him…now, I had nowhere to go.
Phulbani
Where I come from in Belghar there are many pepper and turmeric farms. I am well aware of when to plant, when to water, and when to harvest turmeric. I have seen my mother do this and I have learnt well from watching. With this skill in mind to help me make a living, I boarded the bus to Baliguda first, and once I reached there I changed tracks to go to Phulbani. I have always wanted to visit a big city. Phulbani is a very big place. It is so different from my village on the hill-top with its streams, rivers, waterfalls, pine trees and coffee plantations. There are more concrete houses here, lesser mud huts, and the people walk fast, talk fast. It took me a long time to adjust to their pace. I found a job in the turmeric farms through a friend from the church, as they have a very large network, and I made some money, which I planned to save and take home, but the ancestor spirits did not agree.
City life is not at all in touch with the elements. It makes people very selfish, very unhappy. I had not been to any city before. After what I saw at Phulbani, I am heartbroken. Why are people so cruel when Mother Earth has been so generous and bountiful. There are flowers to offer in worship, and wear in our hair, there are streams to play and bathe in, there are fruits and vegetables to eat and share, mountains to bow down to and climb, animals to talk to, caress, and sacrifice, birds to admire…yet, all that the women who worked with me did was to talk ill about those who were not Christians, saying they were not humans, not refined enough because they did not accept Yeshu, that they would go to hell, and that we must not talk to such heathens or else we would be polluted too. My friends did not realize that I was not one of them. I missed all the jatras, all the celebrations at home so much, I missed my way of being. If I was a sinner just because I loved nature and revered it, so be it.
As a Scheduled Tribe, it does not matter if I change my religion or not, I am free to choose who I worship, I will continue to benefit from the government schemes. But the Scheduled Castes lose their benefits once they convert to Christainity, so they hide their conversions. They continue to get money from the government, as well as from the church. This practice has created a lot of tension in our villages. Given this rampant situation, as soon as I joined the group to harvest turmeric, the other women quickly sought me out to ensure that I was indeed one of them. I knew this racket from Daringbadi, and because I needed a job I did not divulge to them my true identity. Yes, I lied. I lied to survive. Once the first deception is made, the first lie is uttered, it is impossible to revert to an honest living even if one wants it badly.
The first few months spent in the company of these women was enough for me to realize that I must never become like one of them. They are taught to throw away the family idols, to kick and break them, to urinate on them to show their faith in their church. They had to sever all connections with their family members who have not accepted Christ. They had to refuse all offerings from temples and false gods and had to make all attempts to bring the lost brethren into the fold of Christianity. Boxes and boxes of bibles were always being received in the godown on behalf of the pastors visiting us. Each denomination wanting their versions to be distributed. I learnt from the past, and did not show them my skills..I acted a bit slow and dull. No one knew that I understood Hindi or English. They thought of me as a Christian tribal girl who had run away from an abusive husband. No one asked me why he had abused me.
I saw many burnt vehicles and corpses by the wayside in my few months of stay at Phulbani. There were always Maobadis everywhere, one had to be careful in what one said. Not me, as I was exempted, as a tribal who had converted I was looked up to and praised, even if I did not meet the demands of the turmeric pickings and harvest. If the supervisor got to know that you were not a tribal or a Christian, then you had it! All this seemed very wrong to me. I am a proud Ku, yet I love everyone, whatever they believe in, as my dear friend and sister. But Christianity teaches people to hate their own family, traditions, age-old practices, and says that you are a sinner going to hell if you follow your ancient ways. There is no joy nor dance, no festivity nor acceptance, no colour nor custom. And such foreigners come year after year to improve our lives. They abuse our ways, make fun of us, mock at us, and then say that they are here to help us. We want to be left alone, but we are not allowed to be ourselves. Only people with no self-esteem and those who are greedy go to them, I would never. But for my husband, I would never have stepped into any church.
I spoke too soon…in fact I was made to go to church here in Phulbani too. My newly made friends would not leave me alone, ‘how can you not come to church on a Sunday?’ they questioned me angrily.
Just as in Daringbadi, here too there were many many churches and of different denominations, each wanting to lure people to their beliefs exclusively. We tribals were constantly belittled with loudspeakers blaring that our rites and rituals are terrible, not civilized, that we make human sacrifices, that we kill babies, that we smash animal skulls, and all this is because we do not have a proper god, and that they would show us who that was. I wanted to fight back, I wanted to shout aloud that this is not so, you are maligning us for no reason, we have our gods, our spirits, our ancestors, and they are very loving and kind. They do not want us to hate anyone or spit on anyone else’s gods like the Christian god wants us to. But I remained silent. If I opened my mouth, where would I go?
It would shock me no end when I saw the women at the Phulbani farm so incapable. They did not know to hunt or kill or stalk or build rope bridges or bamboo pipes nor could they embroider, dance or sing. They were not good people either. They hardly smiled, they gossiped behind one another and they always talked ill of tribals, forgetting that I am one. They assumed that since I was married to a Christian, my centuries-old Ku identity was washed away miraculously by the baptising waters of the priest. The women, though good to me, were always concerned about their looks especially when the supervisor passed by, preening themselves for him, they would talk of TV shows and films, I had not heard of any of these, and I would always go away at these times which was mostly during the afternoon lunch break. Wandering away into the nearby fields, I would enjoy chatting with the butterflies, moths and bees, the spiders and lizards too in the old building that was our house. All of us shared the space while one of us took turns to cook. I volunteered most days as I wanted to get away from them and be by myself. I would go buy vegetables, wash and clean and cook, singing my Kui songs, praying to my gods without anyone objecting or judging.
But it was Christmas and New Year time, and I had no excuse to not attend church. It was such a tamasha. All these gullible women gave so much donation to the pastor. They hardly had enough money themselves, many times I would buy provisions from my savings, as they had so many responsibilities – children and families back home in the villages that they were supporting, alcoholic and cheating husbands too. I planted a few vegetables in the patch near our common well, that helped me take my mind away from my own people, my parents who must be missing me…my community who was ashamed of their girl marrying out, that too a Pano, a Christian at that, who was far below their social status. Each time I thought of the foolish mistake I had made in the name of love, I felt my heart twist into knots, squeezing the breath out of my body.
The Hebron Church in Phulbani was no different from the one in Daringbadi, both headed by greedy men. Perversion overflowed from their eyes, just as hate for Hindus and tribals flowed easily from their tongues. It was funny, that on a happy occasion such as the birth of their God Jesus, they should spend most of the sermon time in demonizing other people who were not a part of their church! They had no sense of how to celebrate a festival. And they call us backward. These silly women were willing to hand out most of their salaries to these turncoats, all in the name of a religion, which they said was better. Better how? Why? No one seemed to question.
Men and women would shout, scream, throw up, jump about, wriggle…it was like being in a mental hospital. Their songs, their dances even when in Odia sounded alien. Many angrez people have written songs in Kui too, they do not sound normal to me. This is not our belief, not our religion, not who we know or revere, this god was not born on our land, how can we love him as our own, there is no connection between his life and ours. I find it strange that these women cannot see through this blatant lie, this falsity. They are willing to excuse the misbehaviour of the pastor too, which irks me a lot. I was brusque with him from the beginning so he stays away from me, also he thinks he is higher than me because he is an SC and I am ST. If only he knew that we Kui think lowly of him, for having converted, and yet availing benefits from the government. How can one’s conscience accept that? None of them feel any love for the land, for anyone who is not a Christian. They carry hate in their heart and it shows in their faces. I find them ugly. They do not smile easily, their eyes do not warm up and embrace, they do not reach out, they measure, limit, and restrict.
I tried to spend as little time with the women as possible, although they liked me a lot, obviously, since I did not complain or talk too much, and I always swept and mopped the rooms. They left me alone on Sundays eventually, when I said that I was tired and that I needed some rest…now that it was clear that I was a Christian to them, they did not have to bring me into their fold and get paid for it by their pastors. I used this time to embroider some of the plain shawls that I bought from the market for the winter. These became very popular and people started buying them from me. I made some more money this way. It was not much, but enough for me to take a bus to some other place, in case I had to escape again.
Why did I think that I would need to escape again? You never know…life is full of surprises. One must always be alert and prepared. The poor women were either widows or their husbands were alcoholics or had abandoned them…just like me I suppose, but I never did think of myself as weak or needy, as they did. They wanted to look good and find a man to marry or finance their needs. My shawls and hairstyles made them feel confident and desired. Many of these women had relationships with the Maos on the side, some might have been forced, some coerced, some went willingly. They would come back early morning just in time for the fields with some exciting story of a raid here or a raid there…they always knew where the next attack on the security forces would be. They felt powerful and in the know. And they boasted about all this with us in the fields. That is how I heard about the Jungle Eco-Village run by women in the middle of the forest reserve and of Esther Akka.
Our supervisor was found one day by the roadside, burnt, along with his vehicle. He was killed by a member of a rival Maobadi group for being an informer. I had run away from home because of Christians, foreigners causing violence and forced conversions, who had spoiled my pristine lands with their talk of sin and sinners. But here again I had landed in another fire, with the Maobadis fighting one another. The police came to question us, they picked me up from the shared house, and wanted to take me to the thaana. Apparently, my photo was found in the supervisor’s wallet. They started misbehaving on the way and talked in a cheap manner about my body and said bad words in English, thinking I did not understand. I knew what my fate would be if I reached the police station with these men.
When the jeep stopped at a railway crossing, I tightened my hold on my jhola and requested them to go into the bushes, and once there, I ran ..I ran..I ran, without looking back. The heavyset men were no match for a mountain girl like me, I can climb and run and dig and embroider with ease. I am not afraid and I will not bow down to some men who think they are better than ‘these Kondas’.
I miss that city, Phulbani, despite all its faults, I had felt very useful there, working on the land, making money, saving for my family back in Belghar, but now I am on the run again, here in these jungles, the Phulbani jungle.
It is not difficult for a tribal like me to survive in the forest. I know which trees to climb and rest in, where the water sources and waterfalls are, what types of fruits are safe, which paths to take to the tribal villages, and where to look for edible roots, mushrooms, ferns, and flowers. I can detect from the smell of the breeze if a tiger is coming towards me or going away into the night with a full belly. I see from the pattern of the dry crushed bronzed leaves of the forest floor that a cobra has only recently slithered past without disturbing me. I can make the calls of half a dozen birds and a few animals. The deer don’t sprint away when they notice me, nor do the wild boar. The wild dogs are the only animals to be wary of. The big cats are more royal, they do not attack in packs, they hunt alone and follow the rules of the game. The small ones like the mongoose, and yes, even a porcupine I can catch with my bare hands. We are the original hunters of this land. We do not hunt unless we are hungry. Even then we have rules. No female animal, definitely not a pregnant one. Only after asking for permission can we start a hunt, we request the animal that it give itself to us, to make that sacrifice, so that we may survive. We always say a prayer of thanks when we finally kill the animal. It is not easy to be a hunter, we know we kill, that is a harsh price to pay for hunger. But this makes us see life at close quarters, we know what it takes to be alive and we respect everything and everyone who makes this happen. The sun, moon, stars, earth, wind, rains, waters, fire…plants ..animals…humans…. Phulbani Jungle Eco-Village
I did not stop running until I reached deep inside the dense jungle, where I knew that the policemen could not follow me, and would not for the fear of the Maos. Panting heavily, I searched for Esther akka’s visiting card and made the call. She answered sweetly having remembered me, and on knowing of my terrible predicament, she did not hesitate to offer me a job right away at her resort. My cell phone was the only other possession I had with me when I was picked up by the police. Thankfully they did not find it, it was hidden in my hair bun.
Akka was really warm and affectionate and she taught me a lot about the outside world, although the women who worked with me on the turmeric fields did not like her much, because she was a brahmin convert, of a different class than all of us, I took to her from the beginning, and she to me I think. We also had the common aspect of Telugu. My people speak a language which has many Telugu words in it and thus I could be a bit more free and open with her. She understood my predicament, of leaving behind an ancient culture. She said that she too had felt confused when her parents had converted, but she slowly started seeing the light in Jesus, especially after she witnessed the miracle of her mother’s recovery from cancer, and how the church has helped her pay her medical bills, how the congregation rallied behind her, how she was looked after despite being an only child, with no men in the family. How the church never let her feel alone and helpless. Also, life was simple and easy she told me, one did not have to do so many fasts, observe so many rules, there was no bathing a million times,…everything was so simple and easy to follow….you just went to church on Sunday, and you had a whole community who would help you in every way. Jesus made sure you were looked after. What more did anyone want? Her hesitations had paved the way to acceptance, and then to absolute trust, and eventually to strong religiosity.
I first met Esther akka in Bhubaneswar when we had gone to attend a Trade Fair showcasing our rare breed of turmeric, and the traditional turmeric harvesting methods that we practised in Phulbani, she was there with her team from the Eco-Village. She worked as the Guest Relations Officer there. I still have her visiting card somewhere in my jhola that she gave me at our first meeting….and she had been very sincere in saying that if ever I needed help, I must not forget to call her.
I knew that she was trying to convert me completely, to convince me of being a Christain like herself, then she too could feel convinced of her own decision, it would validate her own life’s path. I also know that if I sought Esther akka’s help, it would not be given for free and that I would need to prove my credentials as a Christain to gain her trust and support, but I had no choice.
This resort is a haven in the midst of the Phulbani jungle, pristine and unspoilt. Not many know of it and it is a well kept secret. Not much can be known about it while searching on the computer, people come via personal recommendations, by word of mouth publicity. We get film crews who love it so much here that they take an oath not to divulge this location to anyone else…to other production houses…we get church groups on a retreat, of course the wildlife lovers, birdwatchers, anthropologists..an odd journalist or a reporter, but mostly we are kept running due to the regular influx of Maobadis and their top leadership. Regular meetings are held here, important decisions made here….some men stay on for long periods of time and look for local tribal girls to keep them company. And they are all here planning on how to fight the government. Hearing them abuse my land day in and day out was not easy. They were constantly plotting an accident here, a shooting there, a kidnapping somewhere else. Foreigners kept coming and going from the resort and the place was always busy. All this, while everything around us was dark and quiet. It was a serene forest desecrated by human folly. The tributary of Mahanadi flowed close by, a few mountain springs, a small waterfall, a whole meadow of wildflowers and ferns…Sal…Mahua…Teak…on the weekly off days I would wander about in the forest feeling warm and bright inside ..the forest grounds smelt like home…I would climb up a tree and rest on it with no one to disturb me for the whole day…..I would pray to the goddess of the forest …and ask her to keep my parents and village safe. Safe from the Christians and Maobadis.
Akka had also told me not to be too friendly with the guests at the resort, ‘That is why they keep pestering you, stop smiling at them so spontaneously’, she would warn me every other day when male guests behaved badly with me. She was always making sure that I was protected. But I cannot change my basic nature, how can one not smile when one feels like smiling? What is there not to smile? The gods do not create something and then make it evil or sinful, it is upto us to be wise in how we look at anything, anybody. Our ancestors show us the way. We must pray to them and keep that connection going and learn from the signs they send us. It is that simple. We vanavasis have a very mature understanding of the world around us and the gods beyond, yet most people can only think of exploiting us, our land, and our resources. You must have read about what happened at Niyamgiri. We are fighting battles everywhere, everyday.
During those months in the jungle, working hard and keeping away from the public eye, hiding from my husband, I first heard of Swamiji. They were planning to assassinate him, I heard them talking on phones, on the lawns, on the terrace, in the dining area…..everywhere there was only one topic. Seeing me as a tribal Christian girl who was either embroidering for foreigners and guests or wearing the traditional Kondh costume and dancing traditional Kondh dances with others, they hardly paid any attention to me as a potential threat. But I was watching everything. I was also looking for a place to run to, in case things got difficult there..as they had in Daringbadi, and then in Phulbani.
Given my past, I saw the pattern for my future. For what I had done to my parents and ancestors, I must suffer. My husband had managed to trace me to Phulbani….hearing that my husband had come looking for me, from my church contact, I cut the phone and changed my SIM. I did not want to face him. He can be very brutal and violent when he is angry or slighted. He might divulge that I had never formally converted ..that I had not been baptized….I was living in great fear those last few months at the resort.
That is when there was a lot of talk of Swamiji, his ashram, how he was preventing people from getting converted, how he was an obstacle for pastors to gain numbers. He was also growing big in my eyes, as he had escaped so many murder attempts, and yet all this had not deterred him from his chosen path of protecting the tribals, people like me, from being made victims of some outside entity..or worse still, internal greed. I felt like I knew him, that he would be my father and mother whom I had lost due to my foolhardiness. I wanted to meet him and take his blessings. I really wanted to be his student.
And that is when I was approached. Esther akka had introduced me to Keshav anna as a fellow Christian. He asked me if I wanted to make some extra money. He wanted me to be his informer at Swamiji’s Kanya Ashram. I was to leave immediately, but no one, not even Esther akka must know of my whereabouts, if I revealed anything to anyone I would be shot, he said, looking straight into my eyes. I had wanted to leave anyway and find Swamiji, and here was the sign to do it, immediately.
So one morning on the pretext of making amends with my parents and visiting my village, I took the bus to Jalespeta. It took me almost half a day, I changed a few buses so that my husband would not trace me easily. I had money saved from my work, and I had to hide it carefully in my two jholas. The bus tickets cost me 53 Rupees, and I was finally in Jalespeta. By now I had learnt to dress like a town person, I combed my hair differently, I put on bindis, I wore saris. You might mistake me for a regular Odia girl as I do not carry the traditional tattoos on my face like my mother, and her mother before her. That was a terrible mistake I think now, that small act of disrespect to my ancestors has led me astray and caused me so much pain in the long run. Look at where I am now, away from all that which has helped me come into this world, look at me, far away from serving them. Kanya Ashram Tumudibandha
After they shot him several times and ran away like cowards, Swamiji lay dying on the bathroom floor bleeding, his tendons and wrist cut. I could not save him even though that is what I wanted to do more than anything else in the world. I could give up my life for him if it helped in any way, but he pushed me feebly towards the backdoor, gesturing that I should leave. Perhaps he knew that I would try and make his most ardent wish come true. Perhaps he could see the future. Many said he could. He had predicted his own violent death, and had it not come to pass already? They were determined. As long as Swamiji was alive, he would not let the Kui convert to Christianity, and this is a big challenge for the angrez who come into our forests forcing us to hate ourselves. This is not the first time too, our ancestors tell us tales of how we rose against the British many many times, refusing to be subjugated, so they invented many scary stories about us to make us seem worthy of being converted, of being exterminated.
There were 130 other girls that day at the Kanya Ashram in Tumudibandha….they too saw what I saw …but I am witness to more. I heard them talk to their group leader on the phone, I heard names I should not have heard, I saw faces I should not have seen. I married the one whom I should not have married.
I was the oldest of the lot at the ashram, and I was to take charge that day…on Janmashtami day, after pooja. Swamiji said that from now on I was to assist in teaching the younger girls, I felt fulfilled, I felt like my life had meaning…instead I ended up running all the way to the Jaleswara Temple in Jalespeta on NH 59 to save myself from being kidnapped or shot dead. My parents, my family, my relatives, all of them can be finished in one single attack by them. They have guns. They have power. They are taught to hate us and our ways. What chance do I stand in front of such brute power? If Swamiji himself, the son of Ma Taarini, could not be saved, who am I!!
Have you run barefoot early morning on a highway before? There are so many trucks ……
The truck drivers kept honking at me constantly trying to make eye contact, making lewd remarks and gestures, they too must have been surprised by this strange sight of a young girl running with her hair flying on the highway in a bright red sari. It looked like a scene from a Telugu movie, I have seen the film shooting in Daringbadi, I can’t remember the name. But I am the heroine of this story, which is far more interesting than that frankly. In real life, I did not end up happy with the man I chose. Instead, he made me lose all that I had, which was more than anyone could ask for. For the fear of the trucks stopping and carrying me away into the unknown I ran on the mud track next to the highway in a zig-zag fashion, sometimes hiding behind trees, sometimes crouching behind a rock, the distance is not much, it is all of 10 minutes by walk, but a bullet had grazed my foot and I was in deep pain. The blood oozing decorated my feet as though I had applied alta for Kali Jatra! That ten-minute escape turned into a nightmare that has lasted until today. I am a woman always on the run.
Jaleshwar baaba kept me safe for two days and three nights. If you have not had darshan yet you must visit this beautiful temple which is by the banks of a soothing river, a bridge takes you across the waters, and the small structure is ensconced in the foothills of the Kotgarh Elephant Reserve. This is my territory. Once I reached there I was out of danger. Yet I could not be at ease…they might come searching for me…I entered into the reserve, there are many people of my kind who live inside these dense jungles, we are not afraid of the tigers or the wild elephants, we have lived side by side for centuries. We know what to eat and how much, we do not kill an animal for no reason. The animals and trees know this. They too do not harm for no reason. Unlike the ones outside …the ones who have just now murdered an 80-year-old man because he did not let foreigners come near us, he did not allow them to force us to change our ways.
Swamiji was a wise man from the mountains. He had lived life in the wild, in the Himalayas for many years. He studied under so many sadhus and munis. He served them with diligence and earnestness, he learnt from life by living in the open, cooking and sleeping in the outdoors, in the bitter cold. He fed himself by begging for food, being grateful for what was given, and finally, he wanted to give back to the people of this sacred land, so he returned to the place of his birth. That is why he chose to be here in Tumudibandha, starting this residential school for the tribal girls. And look how we repaid him! We shot him dead. An old man, a holy man, an educator, a saint, we murdered him so cruelly!
I helped in committing his murder. I should not be forgiven. I am a disgrace to my tribe, to my people, to my ashram, to this country, this sacred land. When I was forced to escape from the eco-resort, I found my way to his ashram having heard so much about it, and Swamiji accepted me without a second thought. Not once did he question me about my background or my affiliations. He could sense that I might have been a Christian at some point, seeing the way I dealt with the missionaries he was always fighting with. His sole mission was to protect our area from being taken over totally by the various Christian groups fighting amongst themselves to feed on us. Already there were about 300 churches in and around our district, missionaries would start building churches in villages even without any Christians in it, as though planting trees. But trees give back without expecting anything in return, they are green sages, always working for the welfare of all, unlike these evangelists. Swamiji would do his regular rounds to all these places, talking to the SCs, to the STs, to the poor and needy, explaining gently about Sanatana Dharma. When he did that, I started seeing how Hindu beliefs are no different from our own. Kondhs too have the same respect towards nature and all the living beings.
Swamiji saw that I could speak many languages, so he started taking me everywhere with him. Meanwhile, I was supposed to inform Annas about his whereabouts. Before I went to him, there had been other attempts on his life. I had heard whispers of them in the eco-resort, I was an idiot to think that they wanted to know more about him and his activities so that they could counter him politically or ideologically! Did I expect them to shoot him, no!! No! But who will believe me? If I go to the police they will ruin my life and that of my parents too. Annas have connections everywhere, I will not live another second if I turn an informer. But how do I repent for what I have done, for my role in his killing? Was I not forced to divulge his exact location and the plan for the day, the day of his murder?
Kotgarh Elephant Reserve
The whole state was on fire after Swamiji was shot. Many people were unable to take it anymore, this constant attacks from all sides, the hatred, the insults, the war on their customs and age-old rites. Many of us tribals joined them in support, some overtly and some covertly, we all got together and went on the offensive. Yes, we were very angry. What would you do? After keeping quiet for years and years, after being harrassed constantly, we were not willing to accept this anymore, to be at the receiving end. Villages were burnt, ours and theirs, people were killed, ours and theirs…life turned from bad to worse. I was on the run, I had chosen my side and this put me at odds with the Maobadis and the Christians. They knew of me, they had planted me at the Kanya Ashram, they had taught me subterfuge and guerilla tactics, I applied the same to them.
I am also a Ku, we are natural-born hunters. We stalk our prey well and rest not until we make a kill. I went on a rampage. How could an old saintly man of eighty be murdered in such a dastardly manner! Where was justice? If it was our village council it would have put the killers to death right away. Sometimes such swift justice is needed, if not people can get complacent and start misbehaving more and more. Maos do not fear the government, nor do they believe in our gods, they do not believe in karma, or punarjanma, why will they hold back? They trust only violence and revolution. They had no idea what happiness, peace, joy, celebration looks like…they have lived their lives in the jungles running hither thither like nomads living off of our blood and sweat, just like those pastors…each with their ideology that assumes it is the best and only way to be. If I have retained my sanity amongst such fanatics it is because of my gods, because of Maa Taarini, because of the spirits of my ancestors and of the forests….they have shown me that all is not lost, all is not desolate.
After I ran away from the Kanya Ashram I entered deep into the jungles and took help from the Desiya Kondh families inside the reserve to hide and to attack. I would disguise myself and track various church pastors and throw country-made bombs at them, it created panic among them and they started fleeing Odisha, newspapers were full of reports on how Christians were targeted, but they never mentioned why we were attacking them. Annas started fishing for information about me, they put a price on my head..I was not scared…I was paying my tribute to Swamiji. He would not have approved of what I did ..but I was being true to my tribe. We do not let a murder go unanswered. I am good at archery. I am good at hunting down my prey.
I first found a safe haven in the sacred groves in the reserve, these are patches of forest that must not be entered as they are full of spirits and they will attack you if you cross the line. I had no choice but to step over and enter their territory, I bowed down first, asked their permission, told them my woes, tears flowed down automatically from my cheeks. This was their home, all of us no matter how hungry know that we must never pluck a fruit or flower from here, not even a leaf can we pick, nor a stem or a bud also. Here I was at their mercy. I was both very scared and very sure. I was not scared of Annas, if they found me they found me, what to do, they would simply shoot me. But the forest spirits are malevolent, they are vengeful if you try to disturb their peace.
My whole body was trembling when I first stepped inside, it was as though some creature would fly by and carry me away into the terrifying unknown. I stood shivering in the dark dusk for a while not sure whether I should take the next step and the next…I could see my breath turning into smoke..I could hear my heartbeat saying go back go back…but go back where? I had no home, no one, nobody to turn to. The one man who gave me shelter, I had got him shot. I smelt some deer.. if there are deer there will be tigers too. Elephants I know how to avoid, they travel in packs and one can hear them from far away..but tigers are stealthy, the hyenas too, I must be careful, if they catch my fear, the scent of my scared scarred odour I am done for.
First I must find a solid tree to climb and rest in. I have no way to protect myself from snakes, not even a tree is safe from them but I know this much that if I occupy some space that is not their territory they will do me no harm, I must quickly look for such a spot. I started smelling the ground, taking a whiff of the branches and the bushes, to feel the urine and dung to know which way the animals went,…I did not see any snake pit yet, thank god. I chanted a few Kui prayers in gratitude to pacify the forest spirits.
I derive strength from Ma Taarini, she is the goddess of our clan, during Shardiya Nabaratri I would collect all of the 122 plants that are used in her worship, and deliver it to our temple. I know where to find a particular root, a specific stem, a plant, fruit and flower. I am not clueless like these city girls who simply giggle and dress up, and look for young men to flirt with, or come to eat khechudi dalma khata khiri and prasad. Yes, I know how to climb a tree, which fruit to eat, and which to throw away, where to find water, and which bird to befriend, for it is sure to keep you company. And it will let you know if a predator is near.
I spent time hiding in one of the tree huts far inside the elephant reserve with wild elephants and tigers on the prowl. The forest guard who was a Ku too let me stay in his room for a night or two, whenever he went to meet his lover. I had to promise to keep watch and do his duty for him, it was child’s play. I can walk the forests at night with my eyes closed. I can smell any animal from a kilometre away, I can track them, and tag them too. He offered me food and shelter while he was gone. It worked out well for me, I needed to keep a low profile…I had nowhere to go, it was better to keep still, and be in mother nature’s lap than to run around and be found.
Once, I almost got caught, Keshav anna came for recruiting volunteers at a nearby village, he simply picked up a few young boys for training and the parents could do nothing but consent, I followed them and managed to release some of them and told them to escape to Daringbadi, and gave the address of my parents. Keshav Anna came looking for me, very angry, ready to put an end to my existence, if he had caught me that day I would not be here writing my memoir! He was so livid. He could tear me up with his bare hands I am sure. I threw a snake at him and hid behind a waterfall for hours, it was cold and damp and it got dark early…but I did not budge. It was good that I stayed there wet and miserable in the cold because as I had suspected he had left someone to watch the waterfall just in case. I was there for many many hours till early next morning, and just before dawn when it was not yet light, I sneaked away to the forest guard’s watchtower.
Anna cannot go there as he will be caught by the police if he does. He has a huge ransom on his head. Some policemen are on his side, others against. It is a hard life, to be always on the run, who knows it better than me! Balukhand-Konark Wildlife Sanctuary
Annas were searching for me all this while, they are unforgiving of anyone not loyal to their cause. Even after a decade, I keep getting information that they want to set an example by finishing me off. I have made them a laughing stock say my admirers appreciatively. Technically I was not an informer, I had simply turned against them knowing what they stood for that is all. Violence and hatred against everything that is Indian, that is their mindset sadly. But for Swamiji’s gruesome killing I would not have turned into this sort of rebel revolutionary, what to do, circumstances change a person. After rescuing the first batch of tribal boys from their clutches, I managed to help many tribal women too who were being exploited by the Maos.
Slowly my …name…started being talked about in whispers and people started visiting me in the Elephant Reserve to seek some kind of help or another. Some came for advice, others for suggestions, some for even matchmaking! One day I heard that two of the local wildlife reporters had reported something about me in the Odia TV channel and that I was suddenly a heroine for many of the villagers in these parts. The girls at the Kanya Ashram were relieved that I was alive and well, as were my parents. Unfortunately, this meant that I could no longer stay in the reserve – my husband would find me, Annas would find me..I had to make the run again.
This time I made my way to Konark, this would be my last stop. I decided that I will stop running and escaping my fate after reaching there. That was where Swamiji had wished to be, to complete his last project which was to restart the worship of Surya Deb and to rebuild his temple. Unfortunately, he was shot before he could do anything about it. But I will not rest till I do something about this. Now is the time to go there and see for myself what I can do I thought, and so I went.
It took me four days and constant walking through the Udaygiri and Khallikote forest ranges to reach here. No, I did not take the highways, or the buses, that is how they track. They have informers everywhere. And now everyone has a camera too. No. I knew the forests well, and I knew that they would keep me safe. They would feed me and they would provide me shelter, which they did. When I finally reached Balukhand I was very disappointed, it is not dense like the jungles I was born in or later worked in and then found refuge in. This is not really a jungle but a bunch of shrubs and trees. How will I hide here?
Initially, I had no choice but to sleep by the beach under the shade of these trees or on them if there were animals around, it is a reserve so no human came in, sometimes one or two poachers drifted by, that is all. But they were rare as this is a protected area well patrolled by rangers being in close proximity to both Puri and Konark. As long as I did not disturb the environment and I hid my tracks well I would be left undetected. I did my best to be invisible.
There are a lot of Casuarina trees here which are of no use to birds or animals but are of great medicinal value, the aromatic air along with sea breeze revived my weakening health. I plucked cashews and other edible mushrooms without harming the plant and ate once a day. No, I did not hunt in the reserve. I respect the law of the land, I am not a Maobadi. I learnt to catch crabs and eat them when I was very hungry. I sold the rest to earn money, to buy other essentials. I am a survivor. I can survive anywhere. And now I have a dream to make real.
The ocean waters were like magic to me. This was the first time I saw the sea. I could not believe my eyes, so much water! I was so thirsty that I ran excitedly into its arms both for a bath and a huge gulp, but ended up spitting out most of it! It was salty! How was I to know? But I fell in love with it right away. From then on whenever the beach was empty I would sit on the white sands and watch the waters travelling off far into the unknown world. I felt more and more at ease with each passing day and this place felt more and more comfortable. After a few weeks passed, I gathered enough courage to step out, and I walked towards the temple, towards Konark. It was dusk and the sound and light show was going on. I stood mesmerized. I know why I am here now, I know why my journey has to end here, I know why my life had to be the way it was. I am home at last. All my wanderings came to a stop, especially the wanderings of my heart, in Konark.
Along the beach, I found many eco-resorts, many temples, restaurants, and stalls. I was still pondering on what to do now, staring at every store blankly unsure of what my next step would be when one of them called to me from his shopfront in Odia – “Are you looking for a job? We need someone to help us with cleaning ..and if you know stitching..embroidery…” The store was selling handicrafts to tourists and wanted extra help. I must have looked like I needed a job, of course. The past years in the forest I had returned to my natural look. I had my jholas with me, I had lost my comb so my bun was not as neat as it usually is but my clips were in place, my multiple earrings must have told him that I was a tribal and hence the spontaneous offer. He was pleased that he had found me, as his wife seemed very happy with this unexpected assistance. They were very nice to me, letting me sleep in their store, trusting me with all the merchandise. I had a place to rest, some food, and a couple I could call family. They did not pay me much but I managed. Sometimes some kind tourist would leave me some extra money.
The first thing I did was to remove all traces of my tribal identity. No more fancy clips, no more silver earrings, no more side buns. I spoke only Odiya and tried to practice my Telugu, Hindi and English with customers. I started covering my head. I put sindoor in my hair parting like Odiya housewives, I did indeed look very different.
The shop had a TV set. It was small and old. I put it on sometimes to know the news, especially about Annas. That is when I saw her. She was speaking in Telugu. I remember her evangelical lectures, those days when she would pray to Jesus for every little thing in her life, when she taught me to do the same, trying to convince me of the efficacy of prayers to her chosen god. The woman I saw on TV was talking of her journey from being a Christian to embracing her roots again. Yes, it was indeed Esther akka! I was shocked. I had remembered her many times during my journey from the tribal lands and reserves to the ashram to finally here by the beach in Konark. She has been instrumental in transforming my life in many ways. Offering me a job at the eco-resort, helping me gain confidence in myself, teaching me to speak English without feeling awkward. Many times I have thought of contacting her, requesting her help, when I had no money, when I was hiding in the jungles…but I did not..I was angry at her in my heart..for ruining our lives, we the naive innocent children of the forest, the vanavasis, for telling us that our beliefs did not matter, for making us look backward and stupid in the eyes of the world. Even in those days, she was not like the others though, she was a believer in Jesus, but not a hater of her ancestors. She respected me, my deities, my gods, wanting to know more. She truly understood the reason for my rejection of her offer.
I have seen foreign people’s eyes when they look at us, as though we are nobody, as though we offer nothing worthwhile to the world, she was part of that whole racket. Many American people came, they trained Indians like her and then they would come to our villages and distribute bibles and other storybooks on Jesus and constantly hound us making negative comments of our culture to our faces. They talked of sin day and night. So even though I had needed help the past decade; hiding, running away, fighting, I never wanted to contact Esther akka because of this reason, this anger I felt towards her and people like her. I can understand the deep psychological pain of Dara Singh, the one who burnt those gora people, he did what most of us wanted to do. They come to our land and settle not because they love us but because they hate us. Hate our ways, our beliefs, our customs. They settle in our lands to convert us to their way of being, to show us that they are superior, that they are better than us. Who will accept such daily insults? Do we not have any pride, are we not humans, do we not have a right to live the way we want to?
Here she was in a bindi and sari, smiling at the interviewer and saying that she had left Christianity! I started rummaging through my two jholas that are my only possessions, for her visiting card….it has been ten long years …and then I found it. Would this number work….would she answer her phone, would I be able to contact her…I was tense when I called, and she answered in her typical sweet style, ‘Rojalin?’
It was Esther akka who helped me, again. This time she loaned me some money and found me a shack on the beach, close to the couple who had employed me. She wanted to make amends and repent she said, for ruining so many lives with her evangelism. I am glad that such a wonderful person like her did not get cut off from her roots completely. I, on the other hand, I am here by the beach, when I belong in the jungles on the hills. I wanted to be near a forest so that I am not too homesick, although Balukhand is not exactly Belaghar or Daringbadi, nor is it Phulbani or Jalespeta, it is at least a forest reserve with wildlife and native plants and trees.
I cook, eat, sleep, and work in this shack. In the mornings and evenings, I prepare tea and badas for tourists, and by afternoon I weave baskets and work on some applique embroidery. Families in Pipili are slowly taking up other jobs and this is a dying craft, so when they were looking for some women to help them with their contracts, I decided to take it up. It keeps me busy, and also attracts the travellers and passersby who come and sit by the beach and talk to me about all types of things. They ask me questions and I answer honestly.
I accompany them sometimes to watch the dance on the beach during the Puri Dance Festival or to appreciate the sand sculptures by Sudarshan Pattanaik. They say that they want to see everything from my eyes, learn from a local. Some young girls even pay me to sleep in their tents next to my shack and ask me so many questions about my life. My service to Surya is not yet finished, he keeps me safe.
I am no longer afraid of the Christians or the Maobadis. But I do take precautions, I am not a fool. I am dressed like a city-bred housewife, not like a Kondh, I cover my head with a sari and put on a large bindi and sindoor. I tell people I am married and that my husband is back in the village because he is sick, all of which is true. He is sick, is he not? To leave his ancestral faith and cause so much pain to his parents and to his wife.
I keep a sharp knife and axe next to me when I sleep, and I sleep light. Once or twice when I saw some drunk men trying to get close and act funny, I took the axe to my neck and made a slight scratch. The bleeding throat did the trick. They call me chandi in these parts. Fear is good. I shouted that I would cut my head off without hesitation if they came within six feet of me and that Ma Taarini would haunt them forever. They ran away screaming. I would have done it. I am not scared of death. If there is one or two I can kill, but if they come in a group I know that I am ready to die with honour. Since that day though people have kept a safe distance and regard me highly. Now that the beach crowd has become some sort of my family, I have nothing to fear from anyone. Surya Dev Mandir – Konark
I hesitate to go to the temple during the day. There are many tourists and the place is full of kids running around shouting screaming playing, young couples in love gazing adoringly at one another and at the amorous sculptures, teenagers taking selfies in crazy poses and talking loudly on phones or on video calls, families trying not to lose one another in the crowd, older men and women seated on steps catching their breath from climbing to the closed jagamohana…..foreigners, students, artists, wanderers….everyone with the shoes. People come in groups and have picnics here, eat all kinds of food too. Some of them smoke here without a care. Everyone is here with a sense of wonder but no sense of sanctity.
I go only if some young girl who is travelling alone wants me to accompany her, I walk with her to the temple ruins. I try to tell a few people to take off their footwear and be respectful but they do not pay heed. They laugh instead. Many of them throw wrappers, plastic bottles, straws, whatever is in their hands without care. I pick up after them and put them in the recycling wastebaskets. People think I am some sort of employee and give me more things to throw away. I don’t mind, as long as they keep the place clean. I try to set an example, but people are too busy to notice. They are too busy to sense the energy of the place too. This is where she dances for the gods every night and you are desecrating that space, I want to shout aloud but I don’t. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Who knows who is following me where.
I repeat what I have learnt over the years at the Sound and Light show, to the girls who come to interview me, fascinated by my life story: The wheels of time are moving, all twenty four of them. They take with them the goals of all humans – dharma, artha, kaama, moksha – all of which are depicted here on the walls and columns. Like the silver filigree from Cuttack, this whole structure here has been chiselled with care as though one humongous stone ornament. The seven horses named after the Sanskrit metres are in flight already; Gayatri, Brihati, Ushnih, Jagati, Trishtubha, Anushtubha, and Pankti. This is patachitra in Khondalite. The navagrahas that once adorned the entrance of the audience hall lie in waiting, knowing that their turn will come. That is the nature of things, of this world.
That is when I hear a piece of conversation in English that tells me that I have come to the end of my journey. The ASI is planning to empty the sand that fills up the jagamohana and open it up to the public. It will be reopened after a hundred years or more! It is planning on building the shikhara too…the only thing left now is for worship to start here. Just as Swamiji had wanted. There is excitement all over Konark, people are ecstatic. This is what everyone has been waiting for. There is a lot of movement in the next few days. Jeeps, cars, comings goings, officials, reporters, cameras. Indian Oil people put up a banner, ‘…..state of the art interactive centre, Arka Khetra..’, I simply smile.
Did I have a role in this at all? Who knows? When a small insignificant person like me moves a stone, when a spirit dances in celebration, the sleeping powers rise from slumber and start the wheels in motion. That is how all things take place. Nothing moves if that first stone is left unmoved. I simply lifted the first stone.
Some of these girls who know of my dream to rebuild the temple, are by my side all day taking videos and selfies, and they have shown me the Surya Deb that belongs to Konark, in a museum in Delhi, so far away! They opened the computer and showed me. His face glowing with inner joy spread through my whole being, and I felt fulfilled. All my sorrow and pain vanished at the sight of him, just as he cured Samba, he cured me of all my unhappiness, of my relentless guilt.
Women here celebrate Samba Dashami with great vigour. Offering food to the Sun God three times a day and praying for the welfare of their children. This year I too joined them, and prayed for my tribe, for my parents, my community. I have developed a very close relationship with him over the years, he has never let me down. You call him Surya, I call him Bura Pennu. Only the names differ, the beliefs are the same, the entity one.
I withdrew all my money from the bank, not a word was spoken with the teller, she assumed I could not speak her language and I did not say a word to disprove that assumption. Waiting for the full moon night was the hardest part. I was too excited. This would be my last visit, I set out on my nightly sojourn and once I reached the temple, I let the currency notes loose on Konark, I let them fly away and saw them embrace each and every sculpture and each and every trellis adorning the temple. While my offering was being made thus, I heard anklets and bells stamping furiously in a taandav. The lions at the entrance roared, waking the calm night seas. I could hear them splash from far far away, as though eager to pay homage to the temple, to Surya. The elephants lifted up their trunks from beneath the lions trumpeting the calls of victory! Yes, this temple would come alive soon, it would welcome its beloved resident, and there would be dance and music, there would be poojas and pujaris. There would be devotees, bhaktas, not tourists. Narasimha Dev’s creation will not be left untended. I walked up to the sea and took three dips, submerging my head completely in the cold waters of the dark morning. I emerged from this embryonic embrace just as Surya started to show himself up in the eastern horizon. He is pleased, I thought. He is finally happy that he will have his home back. I returned to my shack, wet and trembling, satisfied.
I think I am now ready to go back to my village. I think I am forgiven, in this world and the other.