The summit of Ayodhya Hill is covered with rugged, uneven rocks. Yet a large part of it is a fairly smooth plateau. It is not very high, measuring 724 metres. Standing in a row beside it are two more hills. Like a winding trail, a red-soil path runs through sal and piyal trees, mahua and palash forests, all the way to the top of Ayodhya Hill. When you stand at the summit, the cool, moisture-laden breeze soothes all fatigue. Whichever direction you look, there is an overwhelming abundance of bluish green. You cannot take your eyes away. It feels as if nature has poured itself out generously upon this good hill. That generosity seems almost priceless, as if it wants to dwell within everyone.
There are three hills. After Ayodhya Hill comes a higher one, called Chamtaburu. Between them lies a vast lake. This lake was formed because of the Khairabera dam. During the monsoon it swells and spreads. The Kansabati and Subarnarekha rivers flow through Purulia. Yet Purulia remains dry land. The water of the lake and the rivers keeps this forest region alive, along with its animals and birds.
That time, after spending an entire spring day on Chamtaburu, we were walking down, following the shade of the palash forest. The sun was still harsh. But in this season darkness descends suddenly. That is proof that winter has not fully gone. At such moments nature becomes even more strange and mysterious. Although Chamtaburu is called a red-soil hill, higher up there is very little soil and mostly rock. For that reason herbivorous animals are rarely seen. Predators live here. That is why one must climb Chamtaburu in groups and return before the sunlight fades. On such a mysterious mountain path, a local companion is necessary, not only to show the way but also to tell the many stories surrounding this hill. Those stories cannot be found in any book. For those whose ancestors have been telling these tales for centuries, the stories come alive every day in their voices.
That time our companion was Domboru, a Munda man. Later I learned that he makes and sells poison-tipped arrows. He also has a strong reputation as a hunter. Now it all makes sense. At the summit of Chamtaburu, where many paths branch off in different directions, there were several ancient trees. Seeing hive-like hanging nests there, I asked whether honey is also found in this forest. Domboru almost jumped in alarm and said that those were lele nests. They are extremely poisonous. If five or six lele sting someone, that person cannot be saved. The poison is stored in a tiny sac just behind their stinger. He told us not to be afraid, because if they are not disturbed, they do not attack anyone.
We came down with Domboru to Parvi village. This is where tourists gather before climbing Chamtaburu. Parvi is like a base camp.
A few steps away is the settlement of a few families from Domboru’s community, on the slopes of Chamtaburu. This is their new home. When the Khairabera dam was built, their fathers’ and grandfathers’ village was submerged. The Santal and Bhil people who lived there were scattered in all directions and became displaced. That village has been completely erased. Yet the lost village lives on in their collective memory. Within that memory, they continue to search for their ancestors. It is the same story of dam-building repeated again and again, from Dombur to the Narmada.
A little distance away there is a tiny marketplace. There are just a few drinking-water bottles and piles of chips packets, as seen in such places everywhere. Avoiding the crowd, a little farther away, a boy of thirteen or fourteen sits with a scroll painting hanging behind him. I walked up to him.
I asked him to show me his other scrolls. As I looked at them one by one, I stood frozen in wonder and awe. I asked who had painted them. He replied that he had. I looked at the boy again. There was no trace of softness anywhere. His body looked as if it had been carved from stone. The impact of hard labour was visible all over him.
I asked how much he would sell the scroll for. It was four feet wide and eight feet tall, depicting community life, painted on a scroll made by pasting paper onto both sides of an old sari. I asked where he had found the colours. He said he had made them himself, from the flowers, leaves, branches, and bark of different trees of Chamtaburu, as well as from stone and soil. He said the old hill and the submerged, unseen village awaken so many colours within him. So many dreams and so much joy, things absent from their lives, come to him. He sees them and he paints. If the scroll sells, he feels good. When money comes into his hands, he gives it to his mother. This mother, he said, only suffers. He asked where happiness is in their lives. Still, he dreams, and with those dreams he paints scrolls.
There was so much inside that boy. I said that the scroll was worth a lot. He replied that it was only six hundred rupees and that I could give even less if I wanted. I said that I could never give less, because how could I ever pay the true value of that scroll. Saying this, I placed three thousand rupees in his hand. He was stunned and could not say anything. He fell silent.
At that moment Domboru came looking for me, as his payment was still due. I understood why he was searching. Seeing the scroll in my hand, he asked the boy whether he had cheated me. The boy gave no answer. When I asked if the boy was his son, Domboru said yes and told me his name was Birsa.
Birsa’s scroll now hangs in my living room. A photograph of that scroll accompanies this writing. Because of that scroll, every day I meet Chamtaburu’s Birsa and the life of his community. In that life there are forests, wild animals, and hills. There is a rhythm. We have come far away from that life. Human bonds have been lost, and we call this modernity. Wearing a blindfold of unfamiliarity, where are we going? That was suddenly encountered by a boy named Birsa who stands silently along that path, looking at us, looking at me, with sorrowful eyes.
