The river Kopili, a tributary of the mighty Brahmaputra, flows by the side of the sleepy village. On the bank of the river, one can see a small hut made of mud-plastered wall with a thatched roof under a neem tree. But no one lives there. The empty hut is, however, well-maintained. In the evening, one can see an earthen lamp burning under a tulsi plant. To human mind, it may look like a haunted house. No, it is not. The hut has a pathetic past linked with the tragedy of an old man who dedicated his life for the cause of truth and humanity.
The sleepy village, Barkuloi, is mostly inhabited by poor cultivators. They are happy with no high ambitions in life. Their philosophy of life is that human life and the course of river are predetermined. But the wealthy person of the village, Ghanakanta, had a different view of life. According to him, destiny can be shaped by hard work. Was he right? Wait. We are coming to this point shortly.
Ghanakanta started his daily life when others in the village were in deep slumber. He loved to visit his paddy field and the jute cultivation in the early morning. A deeply religious person, Ghanakanta led a simple life. He earned quite a lot of money from jute cultivation. His wife expired long back leaving behind a male child.
Ghanakanta found it very difficult to raise his son but refused to marry again. He was afraid that a stepmother would not take care of the child in a proper way. He loved his son so much. For the welfare of his son, he sacrificed his life. In return what the estranged son did? Gopal, his name, was rusticated by the school authority for molesting a girl student and that was the end of his education life. Ghanakanta was totally upset and conveyed his displeasure to his son who in return rebuked him with filthy words. Years rolled on and the little Gopal turned to be a ‘man’, an ugly man.
It was a cold November night. Ghanakanta was eagerly waiting for his son to dine with him. But he was nowhere to be seen. Time waits for none. Though India attained independence in 1947, electricity had not reached the village. The villagers took their meals by the light of kerosene lamps and to save kerosene, they went to bed as early as possible.
The entire village was sleeping. The narrow village lane was deserted except a stray dog barking in the eastern side. An owl hooted nearby. Ghanakanta came out but could see nothing. The entire village was covered in a thick blanket of fog. No trace of his son. He was about to return to his room when suddenly he heard the horn of a taxi. The old taxi stopped in front of the jopona (bamboo gate). Gopal stepped down from the taxi followed by a girl dressed in bridal attire. Ghanakanta remained speechless and stood like a statue.
After six months. To prove the authenticity of the universal saying –‘politics is the last refuge of the scoundrels’, Gopal joined the ruling party of the state and managed to be elected as the president of the village panchayat only to earn money by corrupt means. Honest and kind, Ghanakanta refused to support his son and there ensued a bitter relationship between the two.
It was a rain-drenched morning. As usual, the honest youth of the village and a good neighbour, Deula, went to the field to look after his cultivations. He was totally ignorant of the fact that someone stealthily followed him. The paddy field of Deula was near the woods far away from the village. As soon as he reached the paddy field, he was attacked by the man who followed him all the way. Deula fell to the ground with head injury and shouted for help. The man fled away.
The rain had stopped by then and Deula came to the house of Ghanakanta to report the incident. When asked about the identity of the assailant, Deula said, “Could not recognise the man as his face was covered with a gamocha but found this gold ring lying on the ground.” Ghanakanta examined the ring and asked him to lodge an FIR against his son Gopal. Deula, however, hesitated to approach police for fear of retaliation and the matter was settled with Gopal.
The day passed off in a gloomy environment. Darkness had already descended. To save dear kerosene oil, the poor villagers had to take food in the evening and retire to bed around 7 pm. Ghanakanta was hungry as he had to skip lunch. He enquired about dinner when his daughter-in-law rebuked him for taking side with Deula. Ghanakanta tried to defend himself when his enraged son Gopal drove him out forever. Ghanakanta with a heavy heart left the village unnoticed by the villagers who were in deep slumber. Outside the village, on the bank of the river Kopili, there was a hut under a neem tree which was earlier used by one sanyasi for a brief period. He left for Haridwar and never returned. The old man took shelter in the hut. Deula offered him shelter in his house but it was politely refused. Deula and other villagers used to provide him with food items. Time passed on as usual.
One fine morning. The old man was busy peeling a banana when he noticed a fat monkey on the branch of the neem tree. He offered the banana and the monkey accepted it. The monkey after finishing his sweet breakfast left the place. Next day too, the monkey arrived in time for breakfast with the old man. Slowly there developed friendship between the old man and the fat monkey. For most part of the day, the monkey passed time with the old man. In the afternoon, he used to leave the place only to return next morning. The old man thought, perhaps the monkey was also driven out from his family like him. But he was proved wrong.
The next morning, he saw the family members of the monkey. He was delighted to see the vibrant family of his friend. The little ones even dared to enter the hut. And what about his own family! His wife left him long back. His only son whom he loved from the core of his heart kicked him out. Now he is leading a solitary life away from the comforts of modern life. What a tragedy! Perhaps animal kingdom is better placed in this respect. The old man thought.
And quiet flowed the Kopili. Years rolled on as usual. The neem tree grew taller and bigger. The old man turned 75. He observed his 75th birthday attended by the fat monkey and his lovely family. His son could have wished him but alas, he had no time for his old father. The day passed off as usual. In the afternoon, his friend, the fat monkey, and his family members left him.
After their departure, the 75-year-old man wanted to take rest. He went inside the hut to take a short nap without knowing that that was the last day of his life.
Next morning, the good villagers assembled to pay their last homage. Man cannot control his own destiny. He is guided by prefixed destiny or fate. There is a divinity that shapes our ends, said someone.
(Contributed by Sarat C. Neog)
