As I am trying to remember him with moist eyes, I feel the images blurring out and memories fleeting from sight. I am chasing them down to capture the scenes and organize my thoughts to produce a coherent story; but in vain.
Capturing my grandfather, Late Bhabagrahi Mund (1936-2022), in a single frame is not possible. If I say, he were just sitting here, on the next moment, he would not be there. My "aaii" (grandmother) would say, "gute thaane to basan nei naa" (he never sits at one place). He would reply smilingly, "Bhaba thile thibi" ( I stay where there is emotional connect).
From the scattered images of my memory of him, I would more frequently see an active man, agile and spirited even in mundane work. His time would be spent mostly in visiting our farm lands; talking to someone in the street; clearing thorns from pavements; finding a sapling and planting it on a "hir" (edge of a farm land; usually elevated from the land). He would constantly be in the process doing something or going somewhere. Even when seated, he would often engage in animated conversations, that would require movement of hands. If I may extend it, he was the same in his thoughts. Never at one place. Our conversations would never stay at one topic. It would drift from one to other in a fleet of a second. They might start with Sudama offering a handful of "khuda" (broken rice) to his childhood friend Krishna; however, it might end with how Communist approach of administration is required to cleanse the society and how Chinese way of efficiency should be implemented. He would speak his mind with full conviction. I would wait a second to change the boat and catch the next part of the topic. It was asif connecting to the spontaneous flow of thoughts. William James would put it as "stream of consciousness".
"Can I connect to his consciousness ?", I would ask myself sleeping on a charpai with him and following his index finger pointing stars and constellations. He would tell, "heta hal langal" ( that's a plough) and would keep on telling name of each star of the Saptarshi Mandal (7 sages as per Hindu astronomy- Bhrigu, Vashistha, Angiras, Atri, Pulastya, Pulaha & Kratu; 7 stars of Ursha Major). Then he would point at a tiny dot near a star and explain, "heta Arundhati, Basistha pakhe basiche" (that's Arundhati, sitting near Vashistha). I would struggle every time to remember the relative position of each star of the Saptarshi and I would confuse myself on all occasions. He would then point towards the "Dhruba tara" (polar star) and tell me the story of Dhruba and his devotion to Vishnu. Then we would drift on to moon and Rahu and Ketu and Samudra Manthan and Mohini and.. I would have slept by that time drifting on to clouds and stars in my dreams.
I remember accompanying him to "dhaan khala" (an open and clean place for temporary storage and processing of rice; directly coming from paddy fields) and he would explain how to spot a "kulia" (fox); how to avoid conflict with "mathia devta" (a notorious deity who might hurt you by scraping your body parts with his sharp nails); how to make peace with a "dooma" (ghost). In his era and in that part of the world, reality was intertwined with magic. The deities, the ghosts, the men, the animals and the plants, all co-existed in harmony with each other. To differentiate between surreal and real was of no use. Faith bound them in a single knot.
As my grandfather would boast, "shiba ke sabke darr, mantra phuki kari pret-pishach bandhi debi" (Shiva is the greatest of all. I can bind the ghost-vampire together with a single mantra). I believe, that was his strength. The power of his conviction and straight-forwardness came from the simple faith. Faith in the almighty and the power that was manifested within him.
To elaborate, let me narrate an incident, which took place 10 years back. He was hospitalized in a private clinic at Bhubaneswar. He had severe lung infection. The cough wouldn't stop and the SpO2 level (oxygen content) would drop below normal. It was a grave situation within the family and the shades of desperation swallowed the flames of hope. He was in ICU for 3-4 days and brought back to general ward for a week for observation. On the 3rd day, he woke up in the morning and asked aaii (grandmother) and me to come near his bed. In a firm voice, he announced, "we should pack now. We are going home." We were puzzled and exchanged looks. Then he started explaining, "shiba mahapru kahichan; kein kaaje soichu ethaane; uth aaru jaa" (Lord Shiva has asked him to wake up and go. No point sleeping here in the hospital.) He told us that Lord Shiva himself appeared in his dream. Was it a dream or was it real, he had no idea. But apparently he was sleeping below the "Aakash Malli" (indian cork tree/ Jasmine tree), just beside our Khala and Shivjii came near him dressed as a "Bairagi Baba" (hermit) and woke him up. He was visibly angry with him for sleeping like this on a sunny day. He ordered him to go home at the earliest and not to come back again.
Listening to his dream, I knew that he would be alright now. He had all the immunity needed to cure the infection.
His fascination with Gods was amazing and I believe he had successfully passed the same to his clan. I feel, he used to associate himself more with Hanuman (Bajrangbali). I remember him picking me and dada (my elder brother, around 2 year older to me) in both hands and singing at the top of his voice-
"Raam Lakshman Janaki,
Jai Veer Hanuman ki"
He was partly like the great Hanuman. He would not realize his powers untill reminded of them. He had self doubts and sometimes would withdraw himself from impending reality that would demand immidiate attentions of the man of the house. I think majority of his personality traits were shaped from the experiences in his childhood. We must understand the child to know the man better.
He was born in British India, in the year 1936. He came as a second child to the house of Late Rasiklal Mund (~1915-1947) and Kaushalya Devi (~1915-1979). If I remember correctly, he once told me about having an elder brother, who didn't survive beyond 6-8 years. He had no clear memory of him. That would have been first death in family after his birth; and death of dear ones did follow him throughout his life. He lost his father at a young age of around 10.
When India awoke to life and freedom, my grandfather witnessed death and misery. I would ask him with my childhood innocence, "dada, tamar bapa ke kana hela" (what happened to your father ?) And he would reply, "paangi dele balsan bhai, gote din rakat baanti kale aaru paar..ki rog-bemaar thila, mahapru-maya kana jaanbu !" (People say, someone did sorcery on him and got him killed. One day, he vomitted blood and left this mortal earth or was it a desease, who knows, what lies inside God's head !). I would often think, what would have happened to my "Badu" ( grandfather's father). Was it a stroke or tuberculosis or cholera ? But more important question was: "what would have changed in my grandfather's life, if he had a father he needed ?"
At a tender age of 10, he had all the responsibility of the world. All he had, was his grandfather, who stood like a pillar and protected the family and their inheritance. Late Brajamohan Mund (~1890-~1955) was a strong willed and straight forward man and my grandfather adored him. I used to imagine him as a sturdy man with a moustache commanding respect and affluence amongst village folk. But he had a huge family to feed. My Badu departed leaving behind a wife, a boy of 10 and 4 little girls.
My grandfather studied up to 7th class, as he would narrate how he would go to Chilchila Upper Primary school with a "jhula" (bag) filled with "nuunliaa" (Bhel/Mudhi; salted puffed rice) along with "silat-khadi" (slate and chalk). He would affectionately remember his childhood school friends "Bipin and Jaga" and how the trio could even climb up a "Khajur gachh" (a date tree; full of thorn). Sometimes he would narrate how he got an appointment as a school teacher in Luhagaon and how he could swim a flooding river (Tel river would swell up during monsoon; with no bridge, people used to cross it either using a boat or more often, swim through it resulting in many accidents). His job didn't last long. His grandfather, as he would recount, didn't want to risk the life of his only male offspring left, on a meagre job worth few rupees. My grandfather became a farmer (landlord) like his grandfather, inheriting the land of his forefathers.
He got married to late Annapurna Mund when both of them were probably 16 years old. My father was born in the year 1954, followed by a girl and 3 boys. The family grew bigger and he lost quite a bit of wealth marrying off his 4 sisters. One of his sisters even died at an early age (was it during child birth or before ?). We are talking about the time of great changes in India and inside our family. A lot happed during 1960-1970.
Especially, the famine of 1965 in Odisha, Kalahandi district in particular (Severe draught and famine during 1965-1967; chronicled in detail in a Kalahandia novel by Dr Someshwar Behera in his book "Andhari Mulaka Katha" / a tale of a dark land). Lack of timely rain & untimely floods, broke the backbone of many farming families. My grandfather's only source of income dwindled and he had to take many bad loans keeping some of his "bahal jami" (fertile land) as "bandhak" (mortgage). He was in a desperate situation; clueless how to deal with it. It was the time, he used to tell, how a theif dug up a "surang" (tunnel), from the outer wall of our house our and came inside the kitchen; ate up the dinner kept for my uncles and went away with the utensils and the remaining bag of rice. Lawlessness was rampant and hunger was the currency for crime. It was the time, my grandmother died (Annapurna Mund ~1938-1969). My father was in class 11th, away from home, in a hostel. My youngest uncle was hardly 5 years old. Death slithered inside the family tree and cut away the trunk that was holding it. The survival of 4 young boys and a girl was at stake. It was a matter of flickering faith. My grandfather was devastated, would try to seek answers in his mother's eyes.
Destiny had it written for Kaushalya Devi. Widowed during the spring of life, with 5 of her children to look after to. Now, at her winter age, she had 5 young grand children to tend to. To make things worse, even the light in her eyes decided to abandon her.
Gods had forsaken the family. Filling the empty rice sacks with bitterness only. "Kani budhi khali kuhulouche, joe kana dharaba" (Blind old hag knows only to kindle smoke, not fire to cook food) !. My grandfather would be in an irritated state. That was how he would react to destiny.
That is when, my "aaii" (grandmother) entered in to our family. My grandfather got remarried. My aaii, Binapani Mund (born ~1950) became a constant companion to my grandfather in every nook and corner for the ramaining part of his life. It was 52 years of togetherness in all it's hues and shades. The memory of my "Badadada" (grandfather) is glued forever to that of "aaii".
I remember spending innumerable evenings on their cots, listening to stories like "Maada Handi Katha" (a pot of beating), bhajans like "Mruguni Stuti" (the tale of a doe), tales of "makar bhia" (wedding ceremony of monkeys; usually referring to small fires in distant forest) and stories of "guni-garedi, pangan-nashan, devi-debta, baagh-chhel" (black magic, surreal beings and animal).
One of the interesting one starts with the name of our village (Brahman Chhendia) and that would be for another time.
Did my grandfather live his life to the fullest ? Was he a contented man ? Did he have any regrets ?
How do you measure a man's worth ? Is it the property he accumulated ? Or is it the number of progeny he created ?
How do you decipher a man's happiness and his tranquility ? Is it through the number of times, he laughed with you ? Or is it the number of time he cried in front of you ?
How to know, What was he made of ? What is his legacy ?
You may spend a life time with a man and can't even know who he was. You may share a "Bidi," (a thin cigarette without filter, tobacco wrapped in Tendu leaves) or a dose of "dhengia" (processed tobacco, fine grained; people usually chew on it keeping at side of mouth for long) and know for sure, exactly what he is like.
For me, he was always a 10 year old boy who loved to throw stones in water and used to tell me what would be the depth of water from the sound of it. He might say, "ita haati buda paen achhe" (this is deep enough to drown an elephant) and I would wonder on the choice of unit of measurement for length/height.
For me, he was always an elephant. A compassionate, loving, gentle family man, who might resort to anger when sick, hungry or harassed. He would be extremely happy seeing a sapling grow; told me once that, "chinta nei bhai, das hajar saagun gachh jagei debi" (dont you worry of your future brother, i will plant 10000 teakwood tree for you).
For me, he was the dreamer, who was passionate about plants. A child at heart. We used to have great time collecting bamboo sticks and he would carefully bend it to make a bow out of it. "Ne bhai, tor dhanu sar hazar" (take brother, your bow and arrows are at your service), he would announce. He nurtured his family in his unique way. An enthusiast, who would try to learn new things with the spirit of a child.
Around some time back, when major illnesses didnt touch him; he was always a physically fit man. I would not even find a grey hair on his head. Age was always a number to him that didn't have any impact on his physique. He was a tall man of about 5 ft 11 inch with long hands reaching up to the knees (Ajanu-lambita bahu-jugala). He had a chiselled face with elongated ears, as aaii would put it, "gote gote kaane das das tola suna pindhi parbe" (each of his ears can hold 100 gm of gold earrings). He resembled either a god, or a warrior or a saint. I have no memory of him being ill. He would boast, "moke kebe osho-kasha daaktar-phaktar darkar nei bhai. Gandhi budaa para nije suta kaati pindhba lok ae" (Brother, I know no need of any medicine or doctor. I am an independent man like Gandhi, can spin and weave my own cloth).
He eagerness to learn new things always surprised me. Let me recount one such incident. It was the time when I was in college, some 15 years back. I was at home for summer vacation. One afternoon, I found him deeply engrossed in a small piece of crumpled paper. I was curious; went near him. He showed me and asked, "bhai ita kolkata lekhiche, taar paakhe jani nei hebaar" (Brother, here it is written as Kolkata, what's written near it ?). I was astonished. A seventy year old man trying to learn a new language (Bengali) by deciphering the letters in a paper thonga he got from the nearby grocery store. Such was his enthusiasm for life at large. He would treasure written words. If it involves the picture of a god or a stuti, bhajan or a mantra; he would just keep it deligently along side his bed. If a pocket book of bhajan were in a dilapidated state, he would ask us (his grand-children) to write them on a note book. Every time, I used to visit him, he would sacredly open up his treasure of knowledge and show me the pages of a note book where we had scribbled the Bhajans during our childhood days. He would say, "you had written it in a beautiful handwritting; and that is where your brother and cousins have written." He remembered our handwrittings even at his ripen age.
I believe, that is the gratitude that I could return him. The only gift he appreciated with religious fervour. He silently passed on his appreciation for "Saraswati" (deity of knowledge) in his entire clan.
What is the true legacy of a man ? Why anyone would remember him ?
I think his true legacy is from the value system he passed on to his progeny. The value of truth, honesty, seeker of knowledge and deriving pleasure from simple things.
For many, he was a simpleton. He was unaware of the complexity of everyday life. He didn't accumulate properties or wealth. As aaii would put it, "phandi-phikar to janan neina" (He doesn't know lies or semi-truth).
I believe, that was his strength; his gift to the generations to come.
On the night of 17th January, when the sky was lit bright with a full moon and the Saptarishi on its side, he left this mortal earth. When the village celebrated "Pushpuni" (a festival in western Odisha and Chhatisgarh region, on the full moon day of the Hindu month of Pausa), after he heard for the last time, the song of "chhe chher-chhera" (traditional song during Pushpuni, when the children of the neighbourhound would come to different houses, specially that of landlords, singing the song to ask the house for "dhaan" or grains of rice, for the children of the street and the birds of the village), my grandfather became a piece of "dhaan", a grain of rice; gave himself up for the birds of his house, birds of his farms, birds of the river and the birds of the village.
