The first thing we noticed about the Moghalmari mound was a lovely garden with beautiful flowers next to the ruins of what appeared to be a monastery. We discovered that the site was maintained by a team of three young men, Khokon being one of them.

Khokon talked about the site excavation and how it began when Asoke Dutta brought his students here to study the place in 2003, and to gain experience on conducting excavations. During this phase, parts of the monastery’s wall and some internal structures were found.

In the second round of excavations, which started in 2006, at the so-called Sakhisonar Dhibi, the team found a long wall covered with stucco decorations of animal and human figurines. He said that the place had been put together in 3–4 phases, between the 5th and the 12th century AD. The work shows the influence of the Gupta period. We went down to the lowest level and saw some of the figurines: we were surprised to find Saraswati there, as well as a Kubera kind of figure with a monster’s head.

Khokon’s team maintains the site well, with a small flower garden and clean toilets, of which there are 3–2 urinals and 1 bath-cum-toilet. There is a wire fence around the area. Most of the site is below the village, and therefore, not accessible. The people living in the village seem to be mostly very poor, though they are fairly aware of the site and its importance. According to Khokon, during peak season, they get up to 200 visitors a day! There is a museum at the site, run by the Moghalmari Club which owns the land — a very sadly put-together assortment of pottery pieces and photographs of the site excavation and other articles found there but sent ahead to the Behala Museum as well as, possibly, other museums.

Khokon and the guard then pointed us to the village of Kakrajit, where he said we might find the Rasmancha that a web site (http://www.bomadg.in/2015/09/moghalmari-and-kurumbera-fort-in-one-day.html) had talked about. Wading through the puddly roads of Kakrajit and Mohanpur, however, the only thing of interest we found was the descendant of a Rajasthani Zamindar who had been handed over the reins of the zamindari of Mohanpur after the previous (local) owner defaulted. The man sported a perfectly Rajasthani handlebar moustache with a rotund Bengali paunch and poite!

Since there was still some time for lunch, we headed towards Sarashanka Dighi, calling our local contact, Mr Surjo Nandi, a retired school teacher who is very well versed in the local history and was a part of the local group assisting Prof Asoke Dutta between 2003–2012. He was busy, and shared that he would be free to talk later in the week. However, he directed us to a book shop where we might find an edited volume of writings on Moghalmari, on the way to the lake.

After crossing Saraibazar on the way to the lake, we spotted a small, but interesting and old structure that reminded us of the images of the Rasmancha seen on the web site, and we decided to have a closer look at it on our way back. We reached the northern side of the Sarashanka Dighi and ventured down to the water on a precarious and narrow path. The lake was vast, and its waters were surprisingly clean — we wondered at the filtration/ dredging system that keeps it this way, since locals clearly use it for various purposes. We thought the site might work well as a picnic spot, until we learned that on the eastern side is a huge open field where an annual Pous Sankranti Mela is held.

On our way back, we stopped at the structure mentioned earlier. It turned out to be the very same building identified as Rasmancha on the previously mentioned web site! We were relieved, and yet a trifle disappointed as it turned out to be such a tiny structure! What was curious was the purpose of that monument, right in the middle of nowhere — presently a bus stand — with no other relevant structures nearby! What was its purpose, and how did it survive, assuming there must have been at least one sister monument somewhere?

From the Rasmancha, we headed straight for lunch at the Montu Hotel — a really poky place which served decent food, nevertheless. Again, it was a thali with dal-sabji and maach, no choices. The food was excellent, though!

Having finished our food by 2:45 pm, we thought we had enough time to visit Kurumbera Fort, 25 km down the road to Kolkata. However, once at the turn towards the fort, the road rapidly deteriorated, until, about a km away from the place, we almost gave up the struggle. Staying the course, however, turned out to have been worth it, as Kurumbera Fort is a very interesting place. The “fortifications” are actually a high stone wall and a covered corridor with Buddhist pillars, with enclosures and niches in the manner of a South Indian temple. There was a broken-down enclosure right at the centre, which the local caretaker said was the ruin of a Shiva temple, but this, given the external structure, looked highly improbable. It looked more like an altar of some kind, dedicated to sacrifices. To the right of the entrance, there was a mosque with 3 domes. The central dome had an inverted lotus, in the manner of a Hindu temple.

Our return from Kurumbera, begun at 4:15 pm, ended at almost 8 pm, thanks to a massive traffic buildup once we entered Kolkata. Overall, an exhausting, but satisfying day!

Sakhisena (or Sakhishona) and Ahimanikya were students together at the local pathshala. This was unusual, because in the Bengal that we know of, the children of well-off parents usually studied at home, with tutors. Girls, most certainly, followed that practice. But that’s not the only thing unusual about this situation. Let’s have a look at the school itself. A large monastery, run by Buddhists, offering secular education to all classes of students, male and female alike. A place where learners, irrespective of caste, class and gender, would congregate to celebrate the process of learning itself. Not a university, mind — this was a school.

Let’s have a look at Ahimanikya. He was the son of a minister, born of magical means. The minister and his wife had been childless for many years. The minister’s wife was a devotee of the Lady Manasa, the Snake Goddess. One night, she woke up to find a poisonous snake on her bed. Before her very eyes, the snake turned into a golden chain, which then transformed into a beautiful baby boy. The minister and his wife were overjoyed. They named the boy Ahimanikya (Jewel of the Snake) and raised him as their own. Perhaps it was their no-holds-barred affection which gave the young man the courage to make that audacious request of Princess Sakhisena? What request? you will ask. We’ll come to that, but first, let’s first have a look at Princess Sakhisena, the woman around whom this tale is spun.

Sakhisena was the daughter of King Vikramkeshari. Perhaps she had other siblings, but the legend is silent on their roles. An intelligent, well-read and well-beloved girl, she was an excellent swordswoman and archer — a warrior who was celebrated far and wide even at a young age. Was she beautiful? The legend does not mention it, but to Ahimanikya’s eyes she was, and that is all that matters, isn’t it?

So, to get back to the story, our tale begins, as all tales did until keyboards took over, with a pen. Did Ahimanikya distract her, somehow, as she was writing, or did the fates intervene? We do not know. What we do know is that she was writing (perhaps an exam?) when the pen fell, and rolled over to where Ahimanikya sat. Sakhisena looked back at the handsome young man who had picked up her pen. She held out her hand, as she was accustomed to do, demanding the return of the instrument. But Ahimanikya held out with an impish grin.

“I’ll return it to you, but on one condition.”

Sakhisena was taken by surprise. Commoners — even ministers’ sons were commoners to a princess — did not offer conditions to princesses. She was intrigued by this young man with the honeyed voice.

“What do you want?” Her father had taught her that rulers ought to be benevolent unless challenged on critical matters.

“I want the right to call you by your name.”

What an audacious request! What’s audacious about this? you may ask. It’s just her name. But this was not so simple. The higher up the rank you were, the rarer the occasion for anyone to call you by name. the king might be known by his name, but no one would call him “Raja Vikramkeshari”. He would be addressed, simply, as “Maharaja”. Similarly, Sakhisena would be addressed simply as “Rajkumari”. There would be a mere handful of people, including her parents, who had the right to address her by her name. And this audacious young man with the honeyed voice and twinkling eyes was asking for that right!

Now Sakhisena was a confident young woman who knew how to take care of herself. So, where another princess might have felt insulted or reacted with anger, she merely laughed, and said, “Sure!”

He returned the pen, and that, as far as she was concerned, was that. But she was mistaken. And her mistake would go on to completely transform life as she had known it so far.

At first, it was just a trifle irritating. Ahimanikya took to calling out her name in soft tones from behind the jamun tree. At first, it took her by surprise. She turned to see who it was, and found the young man laughing behind the tree. Perhaps she shook her head and walked on? Perhaps, at the end of the day, before closing her eyes to welcome blissful sleep, she smiled at the memory of those twinkling eyes?

As the days went by, she grew to expect it, the warm, sweet whisper as she passed by, the gentle smile on the face of the speaker. Until the day the tone changed, and she changed, and turned to walk towards the voice, not away from it. That was the day, she thought, that her decision was made. But perhaps she was mistaken there. For many a decision had been made with the first look, the first smile, the first touch. And many more would be made in the days to come.

She knew — they both did — that their love was impossible. A princess does not wed a minister’s son. So one night, in the midst of a wild, violent storm, they stole away on the path to nowhere. Through the untamed jungle, past the raging river, and across many a ragged path, they held hands and walked on. Once, they were stolen upon by dacoits as they slept. They should have had nothing to fear, having nothing of particular value upon them. But these dacoits were not seeking wealth. They were after a young man to sacrifice to their wild goddess. Sakhisena woke up to find that she was alone. After a few minutes of desperate search revealed that he was quite gone, she sat down to pray to the goddess Chandi. She poured her heart and soul out to the goddess, praying for Ahimanikya’s safe return. And he did return, in one piece, having miraculously stolen away from his captors. And then they set off again.

After about six months of walking, they reached the village of Satdeula, by the river Subarnarekha. The king governing this area was Madhabchandra. They decided to settle at Panipukur, just a mile south of Satdeula. A few weeks of happiness followed. How were they to know that their biggest test yet was just beyond the shining horizon that they had perceived as Forever?

The day began innocently enough. Ahimanikya saw a bright and dry morning and decided it was perfect weather to go shopping for their monthly groceries to the large weekly market near Satdeula. What he did not know was that a magician by the name Hira Malini (or Gayananda) lived on the way, and she had been observing him for a while. She decided she wanted the handsome young man to herself. What was it she said to him to lead him to her home? The story does not tell us. What we do know that, on his way to the market, Ahimanikya was waylaid by Hira Malini and taken to her home, where she turned him into a lamb. By night, he would regain his own form, but, chained to her side, the poor youth had no way of reaching out to his beloved wife.

Meawhile, Sakhisena waited all day for her husband to return to her. When he did not, she went out in search of him, looking for him at the market, the village, and other nearby areas, all in vain. Convinced that some unknown danger had befallen him, Sakhisena garbed herself in male gear and adopted the name Shashishekhar, prowling the lands by day and night to continue looking for her beloved Ahimanikya.

At about this time, a rhinoceros went berserk in the area, attacking villagers and other animals alike. King Madhabchandra declared that whoever was able to defeat the pachyderm would be given half the kingdom and the hand of his daughter in marriage. Sakhisena realised that this was the opportunity to gain the resources to organise a proper search for her husband, and threw her hat into the ring. What a hunt it was, and what a fight thereafter! The locals sang songs about the fearsome rhino and the fearless young man who fought it, for years afterward. In fact, they say that the ‘Ganda Mara Pada’ (or field) near Satdeula is named after this very fight.

At the time of the wedding, Shashishekhar informed the king of his vow to not speak to or touch the princess for a year afterwards. ‘He’ then went about constructing seven temples and various inns for travellers, and performing various welfare activities to help the poor. ‘He’ then commissioned a play (jatra) by the name Kantabicched (Separation from the Beloved) to be staged for the village folk.

When Ahimanikya heard about this, he immediately decided that this was his chance to escape. He persuaded Hira Malini (having convinced her of his love for her) to take him to the play. To his joy, Hira agreed, though she kept him close to her side throughout. As they watched the play, Ahimanikya observed the royal party, and recognised his wife under her disguise. Having smuggled a piece of charcoal in his hands, he managed to scratch out his whereabouts and his predicament on a temple wall.

Shashishekhar, out seeking clues of Ahimanikya’s existence, found the wall scratchings and understood everything. Without any further delay, the royal army, led by a furious Shashishekhar, attacked Hira Malini’s house. Hira Malini fought to her death, but as she died, the magic gave way, and Ahimanikya returned to his original form. The place came to be known as ‘Malipota’ after Hira Malini, and people feared and hated her magic so much, that they threw stones at the ruins of her house every time they crossed it.

The story of Sakhisena and Ahimanikya continues to be celebrated in the Bengal-Odisha border area, and comes to us by way of the oral recollection of Mr Surjo Nandi, a retired school teacher from Dantan. He has published the story in the anthology Moghalmari’r Bouddha Mahabihar — Bibidha Prasanga (ed. S. Nandi, Parul Prakashani: Kolkata, 2016). A version of this story was presented by noted novelist Subodh Ghosh in his celebrated collection of folklore, Kimbadanti’r Deshe. The tradition of palagaan (ballad) has celebrated this story and kept it alive through generations, with artists such as Sushil Sheth of Birijpur. The folk poet Fakirram, who lived in Barddhaman, wrote an epic poem called Sakhishona almost 300 years ago. All these stories mention Sakhisena’s pathshala as the setting for the love story — this is the mound at Moghalmari that was excavated between 2003 and 2016 to reveal what could possibly be the second largest Buddhist Mahavihara in the region (after Nalanda). A fascinating place, it reveals evidences of human existence in the area all the way up to 1500 BCE!

More on our visit to the site and related stories next week!

* We find that many efforts to do good work die an unnatural death when they are stymied alternately by pedantics and corrupt people. We know there are a whole lot of you out there who see the gaps and would like to engage, but have neither the time nor the wherewithal. You can help us in many ways — share your knowhow of people and places, funding opportunities, ideas for development. Do connect with us if you want to jump onto the bandwagon!

What can be said about a woman like this? A woman who was picked as a child to be trained at the feet of her father-in-law, the famous scientist and mathematician Varaha-Mihira? A woman of such power that people actually believed she could bring back the dead? That she deserved to be killed, of course! For a woman who displays such power as well as the wisdom to use it well can no longer stake claim to the protection of the andarmahal. Exposed to the cruelties of the world outside, Khana might as well have been killed. Instead, what they did to her was far worse — they cut off her tongue and made a public exhibition of her. “Look, all you women aspiring to positions in society! This is what happens to a woman who dares to speak her mind, who dares to aspire to be taken as seriously as a man! Look at her, and be warned!”

Some say it was her father-in-law who did it, publicly, intending to teach her a lesson as her stature outgrew his own; or perhaps in revenge, that for all her wisdom, her near divine status, she was unable to save the life of a child in the household. Others say it was her husband, who, dwarfed by her giant reputation, committed the foul deed in the darkness of night. No one can be sure. What we do know for certain is that Khana existed beyond the legend that was her life, and her bachan — her predictions and wise words — have served the people of both Bengals well for many centuries after her passing. Sample some of these:

1. Alo haowa bendho na/ Roge bhoge moro na (Don’t block out the wind and the sun/ This will bring health for everyone)
2. Khana deke bole jan/ Rode dhan, chhayay pan (Khana calls out to everyone/ Plant betel in the shade and rice in the sun or Drink in the shade when you farm in the sun)
3. Bish haath kore phnaak/ Aam kanthal pute rakh (Plant at a gap of twenty feet/ If you want mangoes and jackfruit to be sweet)
4. Potol bunle Phagune/ Pholon baade dwigune (If you plant pointed gourd in the spring/ A double harvest will make you sing!)
5. Gachhe gachhe aagun jwale/ Brishti hobe Khana bole (When the trees one by one catch fire/ There will be rain to your heart’s desire)

You can see Khana-Mihirer Dhipi, barely an hour and a half beyond Kolkata down the Old Jessore Road (or via Rajarhat, if you’re following Google Maps) at the village of Berachampa. Why it is called that is anybody’s guess, since Varahamihira was supposed to have lived the better part of his life at the royal court of Ujjain. The people who live in this area have, however, always identified the mound as Khana-Mihirer Dhipi (The Mound of Khana and Mihir). Post excavation, visitors to the site can see the ruins of what appears to be an ancient temple, with a sacrificial altar and pedestal for an idol.

Across the road, a few metres down, is the site known as Chandraketugarh, named after King Chandraketu, who had a famous tussle for power with the Sufi warrior mystic, Pir Gorachand. Almost abandoned, the site is an open field with a few broken structures visible above ground. The real stuff to be seen here lies below the ground — if anything is still left. Over the decades since it was discovered, official apathy (there isn’t even any basic fencing around the site!) coupled with local curiosity has meant that anyone armed with a spoon could dig at the site and hope to walk away with treasures ranging from pre-Mauryan seals and potsherds to Pala era terracotta statues! Chandraketugarh is one of the rare known proto-historical sites in Bengal, yet it has been abandoned to its fate for decades.

A local enthusiast, Mr Dilipkumar Maite, had set up a museum in his own house to retain some samples from the site, since the state government did not seem at all interested in this.

As per this article, and our own visit to the site, it seems that the government is now thinking about setting up a small gallery walk within the large Pather Sathi complex situated at the entry to Berachampa. Since Chandraketugarh seems to have representation in every major museum in the USA and UK, we would think it is well past time it had a presence in the local area! You can find pictures of the artefacts displayed in some of the foreign museums here.

Next week, we come back to you with stories from Paschim Medinipur, and one of our current favourite sites — Moghalmari.

* We find that many efforts to do good work die an unnatural death when they are stymied alternately by pedantics and corrupt people. We know there are a whole lot of you out there who see the gaps and would like to engage, but have neither the time nor the wherewithal. You can help us in many ways — share your knowhow of people and places, funding opportunities, ideas for development. Do connect with us if you want to jump onto the bandwagon!

The warning might have been taken more seriously had those eyes not been twinkling with mischief as he spoke! “Our grandfather likes his jokes,” said the young ASI worker who had escorted us to the lower-middle-class house in Tamluk which we had come to visit. He wanted to reassure us so that we were not scared away! He needn’t have worried. Octogenarian Lakshman Chandra Pradhan — tall, dark and handsome, retired seller of betel leaves, an “illiterate archaeologist” in his own words — had every right to ask us to wash our hands and feet before entering his house. That would have been the way in the Bengal of the past — a practice that has been, unfortunately, mostly discarded here. We were quite happy to do it, but then he stopped us and, after admonishing us for touching his feet, led us inside his house to his “little museum” of curiosities. He had only wanted, he said, to “check that we were worth talking to”.

(At the very outset, it is important to share that very few people in Medinipur are, in fact, illiterate. Education is considered to be a basic necessity, and most children complete high school — even girls. So the point of calling someone “illiterate” is to state that s/he hasn’t been to college!)

Jocular and chatty, despite his ill health, Lakshman babu turned out to be an archaeologist in deed if not in formal training. Roped in to help the team of archaeologists planning to excavate the sites of ancient Tamralipti in the 1970s, Lakshman babu, on the team leader’s advice, went looking near the Rupnarayan river for potential relics. He had no idea how to go about looking, nor even how he was going to recognise the relics when he found them. All he knew was that he had to find “old looking man-made things”. He was told to scrape around the river bank as the “most likely place” where such things might be found.

Initially, he wasn’t sure whether the bits and bobs he found were worth anything, but when he brought these back to the ASI, they realised that these were potsherds, arrow heads, bits of weaponry — all dating back to pre-historic times! The ASI had found its most enthusiastic and effective volunteer in a simple panwallah.

When they realised this, the people at the ASI gave him books to read, that would help him to identify the objects he was searching for, and also the correct methods of cleaning the pieces. As he read the books, Lakshman babu realised, to his horror, that he had been painstakingly cleaning away artwork created thousands of years ago under the impression that it was all dirt!

Archaeology soon turned into his passion, and perhaps even an obsession of sorts. Lakshman babu claims to have excavated over a hundred pieces of various kinds, and several hundred beads over the years. The work itself was tiring and long. It involved months of traveling to-and-fro on 3 km patches of land, several times a day, covering swathes in the most intensive way possible. He was, he says, “training his eye to see”, so that he could find the right things. Among his favourite discoveries, he counts Chalcolithic pottery that he found near the SD building, and painted stone weapons — particularly a lovely fish hook — which he picked up at Ichapur.

While he has been felicitated multiple times by the government and celebrated in the news, Lakshman Pradhan has not earned a penny by way of his passion. He had to sell his wife’s bangles and then his land to repay the Mahajan (moneylender), on whose grace the family survived when Lakshman babu was off on his archaeological adventures. ASI never paid him or even gave him credit officially for the findings, though they acknowledged his contribution in newspaper interviews. Facing ridicule on account of his fame — The Statesman called him an “illiterate panwallah turned archaeologist” in an attempt to glorify him, but it became a laughing matter amongst his friends — he tore up the commendation that Bengal CM S S Ray had written out for him. While these matters still trouble him at times, Lakshman babu is not a man to stay down for any length of time.

Now a heart patient, he spends his time picking up bits and bobs from the carpenter’s shop, or from the mechanic’s garage, and creating interesting objects for the children around him. He makes pedestals and stands for his objects, laying them out in a small “museum” the way, he feels, a museum’s displays should be laid.

“People must love what they see,” he says. “They must engage with the objects, get to know their story. They must be discoveries for each visitor in the way that they were discoveries for me. Otherwise, why should they come to see them?”

* We find that many efforts to do good work die an unnatural death when they are stymied alternately by pedantics and corrupt people. We know there are a whole lot of you out there who see the gaps and would like to engage, but have neither the time nor the wherewithal. You can help us in many ways — share your knowhow of people and places, funding opportunities, ideas for development. Do connect with us if you want to jump onto the bandwagon!

“Where? In the sky?” I was tempted to ask. But I followed his finger and poked my head out of the car window and…lo and behold, there, perched precariously atop the first floor parapet, was the blue-and-white board proclaiming the offices of the regional ASI and the Tamluk Archaeological Museum.

We had started out by 8:00 am from Lake Avenue in South Kolkata, having handed over Mishka’s daughter to the nanny. The hired car-and-driver had come on time, thankfully, and we were hoping to be out of the city before rush hour. We had packed sandwiches and fruits for the road, in the anticipation that food might be hard to come by. (Of course we planned the food first — we’re Bangalis! Come on!) We were carrying water to last a couple of days, and all the relevant books, and even my laptop! We were going to pay a visit to Tamluk, the district headquarters of Purba (East) Medinipur. It was a journey into the unknown, and we were prepared to take all kinds of surprises head on — pleasant, or not!

Why Tamluk?

Tamluk, apart from being an important local town, is the site (almost) of ancient Tamralipti. While there is concrete evidence of the town being an important port during the Mauryan period, there are also stray evidences of settlements being in existence in this area during much earlier periods. Tamralipti finds a mention in the writings of Fa Hien and Xuan Tsang, as well as later writers, indicating that it continued to be an important city well into the second millennium CE.

For us, however, the major attraction of Tamluk was the presence of the ASI’s Archaeological Museum there, a place which was said to have an impressive collection of ancient and even pre-historic artefacts collected from around the coast of the Rupnarayan River. We knew of two other major places of interest — the ancient Bargabhima Mandir, said to be one of the sites of Sati’s fallen body parts, and the Tamluk Rajbari, which legend claimed had continued to exist since the Mahabharata period. We were much relieved by the fact that all these places turned up on Google Maps, which meant that we would be able to find them without too much effort (or so we hoped!).

On the road

The road was the first, and one of the biggest surprises on this eye-opening trip. NH16 was a broad, well-maintained highway all the way up to Kolaghat, where we turned to join NH116 and, about 15 km on, NH116B right up to the intersection with the Haldia-Mechada Road — which marked the entry into the city — was easily one of the best roads we have encountered anywhere in India. Used to potholes and “road falls” on most of our road trips in Bengal, we were unprepared for the speed at which we were able to travel! As a result, we were standing in front of the ASI Museum at exactly 10:15 am (2 hours 15 minutes was the Google Maps estimate) wondering whether we would find anyone inside! We had spent less time on the highway than Google had estimated, but the travel time within the town was a little longer, owing to really narrow roads and a fair amount of traffic.

At the Museum

We found the narrow staircase entry into the building easily enough, then made it up to the first floor, which had a board marking the Museum, but all we could see were two rooms!

“This is all there is,” assured the smiling security guard, as he got us to sign on a Visitors’ Register and promise not to take photographs.

We looked at each other, not really expecting anything worthwhile in two rooms full of showcases. But once again, we were in for a surprise. There were remnants of human habitation from 10,000 BCE to the 12th century CE! Of the things we found remarkable, were two child-sized sarcophagi (not dated), a fish hook and harpoon dating back to 5000–3000 BCE, a Roman amphora in perfect condition dating back to the 1st century BCE, intricately carved human figures from the Maurya, Sunga and Gupta periods and 2 clay boats, one of which bore an Egyptian emblem. One particular Sunga bust of a fashionable lady had us ogling at her thin, arched eyebrows and beautifully bobbed hair. She could have walked out of any recent fashion magazine!

There were also seals and coins belonging to indeterminate periods, and parts of pottery and weaponry dating back to between 5,000 and 3,000 BCE. There was a huge map marking out the areas from which all these artefacts had been found, which we, unfortunately, were not allowed to photograph. Did we say the collection was ‘impressive’? Mind-blowing would be more like it.

By the time we were taken in to meet the officer in charge of the museum, Dr Sunipa M Ketkar, we were, literally, bug-eyed with wonder and bursting with questions. Dr Ketkar turned out to be a pleasant and very helpful lady who was excited to hear about our project. She was very keen herself on refurbishing the museum; hopefully the work on that is underway even as we write this! She gave us the important tip that we could travel to Tamluk by an AC bus, which leaves from Esplanade every 30 minutes, and costs only Rs 100 per ticket!

We spent a very pleasant hour in her company, discussing possibilities and the way ahead. On our way out, she directed one of the young men working at the office to take us to the house of Laxman Chandra Pradhan, a panwallah with a unique passion, but that is another story. She also directed us to the Olive Kitchen (aka Ma Bargabhima Hotel), where we had a lovely thali (bhaat-daal-alubhaja-peper tarkari-potoler tarkari-maachh) served on eco-friendly talpata for an amazing 60 rupees!

Heading out from the eatery towards Mahisadal, which was our next destination, we decided to stop over at the Tamluk Rajbari. It looked like a haunted spot, overgrown with weeds and slithering with snakes and other creatures. No official date on its construction is available, which is really unfortunate, because we both felt that the space had immense possibilities for development.

Since we had already looked at the Bargabhima Temple and decided against spending time on it — an active religious spot that is buzzing with pilgrims, it has been broken down and reconstructed so many times that it is impossible to set a historical date to the structure. It made sense, then, to move on to Mahisadal, the site where many of the museum artefacts had been found. Dr Ketkar had told us that the site had been covered up owing to the impossibility of conserving it (the story of many, many sites in Bengal, unfortunately!), but we decided to see the place for ourselves, anyway!

Come next week, we have a special mid-week piece on our meeting with Laxman Pradhan, and on Friday, we look at Mahisadal Rajbari and some non-Bangali rulers of Bengal.

* We find that many efforts to do good work die an unnatural death when they are stymied alternately by pedantics and corrupt people. We know there are a whole lot of you out there who see the gaps and would like to engage, but have neither the time nor the wherewithal. You can help us in many ways — share your knowhow of people and places, funding opportunities, ideas for development. Do connect with us if you want to jump onto the bandwagon!

Wisdom in the number ten

I’m no expert in the field, but having grown up in Bengal and experienced the goddess in various forms — Annapurna, Basanti, Durga, Jagaddhatri, Laxmi, Kali, Saraswati — I have immense affection for her, and am yet constantly surprised by how many facets of society are reflected in her various forms. I remember, particularly, being fascinated and terrified at the same time while viewing the immense Smashan Kali idol at the Chetla Smashan. Her luminous, reddened eyes flashed menacingly against her black skin, quite at odds with the huge tongue on which she had bitten down, apparently, I was told, in shame at having stepped on her husband’s body. She was naked, except for the garlands and waistbands, all made of skulls, about her body, tied in place by a red thread made of, my sister whispered to me, the veins and arteries of those she had killed. She was fearsome, and yet, beautiful in her own way. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her.

That is, until I noticed the nine other goddesses who surrounded her. I must have been eight or nine myself — whether they were goddesses or demons, I could not have told. One was young, one very old; one was beautiful, another hideous; their skin colours varied from yellow to red to blue to green to black; some rode corpses, one a crow, and one — to the horror of my nine-year-old eyes — what looked like a couple having sex!

“These are the Dasa Mahavidyas,” my mother whispered in our ears. “They are led by Kali.”

Dasa Mahavidya! That meant the ten goddesses of great wisdom! I was still in a state of shock, and I am ashamed to say, now, that I was too ashamed then to look closely or ask questions about these idols.

The memory of that visit stayed with me, however, and with the advent of age, better sense and — thank goodness! — Google devata, I was able to look them up. You can look them up, too, if you’re interested, so I’m not going to spend a lot of time expostulating about the Dasa Mahavidya. Instead, I’ll do a quick listing out and move on to the two ladies in that list who are really interesting for us.

So, the Mahavidyas are:

1. Kali

2. Tara

3. Shodashi

4. Bhuvaneshwari

5. Bhairavi

6. Chhinnamasta

7. Dhumavati

8. Bagalamukhi

9. Matangi

10. Tripurasundari or Kamala

Now, each one of the ladies has her own fascinating history, but the ones who really stand out for us are numbers 7 and 9.

The Smoky One

Number 7, Dhumavati (“The Smoky One”), is depicted as an old woman dressed in white, with two hands — one holding a winnowing basket or a broom, and the other, a varadamudra or gesture bestowing grace (or chinmudra, seeking wisdom). She is associated with cremation grounds, death and disease. Sometimes, she has four hands, and then she carries both broom and winnowing basket, along with a torch and a club. She is pale and dirty, accompanied by a crow, and found among funerary settings. The story goes that Shiva, who would forget everything while meditating, once forgot to procure food for a long time. Parvati, hungry and unable to rouse him to her needs, proceeded to eat him for dinner. Shiva, who is essentially formless, sought her permission to return to his form, and she granted his desire. He proceeded to curse her to experience the form of a widow with unquenchable hunger and thirst.

There are many interpretations to this, of course, but here’s my favourite one. Dhumavati — herself almost formless — represents Prakriti without Purusha: nature without consciousness. She is dull and surrounded by illusion, she is the remnant of war, the smoke left after destruction, the hunger of survivors for those who are gone — she is the world without love. She holds a winnowing basket, to separate truth from illusion, that which is worthwhile from that which is not; a broom to sweep away cobwebs from our minds.

But when have you ever seen a goddess depicted in this way? Look at this image!

The decrepit widow, her poverty marked out in the lack of jewellery or splendid clothes, accompanied by a crow, and not one sign of the slightest bit of grandeur! For those of you who find the character interesting, Jash Sen has given us a lovely depiction of Dhumavati in her Wordkeepers trilogy.

The Impure One

Number 9, Matangi, is green, and carries a noose, a goad, a sword and a club. She is associated with pollution, inauspiciousness, and society’s margins. She is offered joothan or ucchishta and is sometimes called Uchhishta Matangi. She was apparently born out of the food spilled by the gods as they ate, and sought their permission to make spilled food from offerings to the gods her prasad. An alternate story, found in Bengali Mangalakavyas, talks about Shiva missing his wife when she went to visit her parents, and going to see her in the form of a Chandala. Parvati returned the favour by turning up as a Chandalini while Shiva was engaged in conferring with his coterie. Shiva, the all-embracing god, and Matangi, the all-embracing goddess, break apart the fair, privileged, upper caste mould of godhood and force us to look at society as it is, and embrace those unnamed by Brahminical structures.

Her association with Matanga is interesting, as Rishi Matanga has been called the first crusader against untouchability in the Jatakas. Her colour, green, is the colour of Budha, or Mercury, a god who was turned into a eunuch by an apsara’s curse. Later, after being returned to male form, Budha fell in love with and married Ila, the son of Vaivasvata Manu (often called the First Man), who was cursed to spend every alternate month as a female. Gender transitions, anyone?

She is also known as Neel Saraswati, a version of Saraswati who is
open to mystic learning, and is considered to be her dark, wild,
ecstatic form. Unlike the demure Saraswati, who represents more
traditionally acceptable ways of learning, Matangi explores the
darker, unexplored paths. She looks within, and finds a relationship
between the mainstream and the marginal, and is represented by a dark
blue lotus, while carrying a veena.

These goddesses are present, not on the margins or the periphery, but in the heart of the puja pandal as a major aspect of the Bengali calendar year. In line with Tantric traditions, their presence reminds us all that everyone has the right to be present in the line-up, to be heard, to be served, to be worshipped even — young or old, beautiful or ugly, high caste or low, gender definite or indefinite. Happy Kali Puja, everyone!

* We find that many efforts to do good work die an unnatural death when they are stymied alternately by pedantics and corrupt people. We know there are a whole lot of you out there who see the gaps and would like to engage, but have neither the time nor the wherewithal. You can help us in many ways — share your knowhow of people and places, funding opportunities, ideas for development. Do connect with us if you want to jump onto the bandwagon!

Two women in a world of stories

The first thing to understand about us is that we’re big fans of mystery stories. The ‘why’ and ‘how’ questions bother us, way beyond the ‘who’, ‘what’ and ‘when’ — which is pretty much the set of questions traditionally answered by history textbooks. History is created by a fascinating concoction of personal peculiarities, mass trends and elemental impacts. Individuals, groups and natural factors all come together to shape the story of humanity. We believe that an understanding of human history is essential to understand the world we live in at this moment.

We live in a world where stories are rampant. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, blogs like this one — they’re all platforms for storytelling. Some tales are informed by facts, and others dwell happily in the realm of myth. There has always been a tendency among orthodox religious groups to treat myth as ‘truth’, and in recent times this tendency has gained mileage, pushing otherwise moderate people into opposite camps. In recent times, the question has no longer been whether you can prove your point rationally, but whether you can press your point multiple times and get more people to forward your message! As a result, all sorts of tales are floating around, posing as truth. For people like us, who like to get at the whys and hows, there appears to be no choice but to get down and dirty and mine for the facts!

And so, Mishka and I have taken the metaphoric plunge to present the tales that are supported by facts — clumsy, messy and imperfect as these are — and tell the true stories behind our own horrible histories (thank you, Terry Deary!). We’re excited to share that we’re starting a project called History Alive!

What will it be about?

The intent is to identify interesting historical spaces and stories and develop them in ways that are attractive to visitors — to help visitors really engage with these stories and spaces.

We’re going to work outside of the capital cities, telling the stories of smaller towns and villages and building the narrative of India’s histories right from the ancient period to the present. We believe that many different kinds of truth lie beyond the facts shared in our textbooks, and we seek to investigate, celebrate and present these truths before they are completely obliterated by Whatsapp bullies.

Rising in the East

A lot of the ancient history that lies neglected and unknown belongs to the East — once dominated by Austric and Dravida speaking people, and later to become a true melting pot of varied cultures. We propose to begin with Bengal — the land of Durga and Mahishasura, the land of tea gardens, Baul music and Banabibi; once a great trading area, now mostly agricultural — where people value enrichment of the heart and mind far beyond that of the pocket. Bengal is also the place which we call home. The history of Bengal is locked up in dusty tomes, the preserve of academics in white towers — though it continues to exist in folklore and in the occasional local historian’s notes. Excavations of ancient sites lie half-completed or covered up, requests for state and central funding are mostly ignored.

All most Indians know of Bengalis is their tendency to protest — the chant of “cholbe na, cholbe na!” (“won’t be allowed, won’t be allowed!”) is often thrown at us by North Indians, accompanied by a wink and a smile. Well, here’s the deal. Aar boshe thaka cholbe na! (No more sitting by in passivity!) We’re going out to find our tales, and tell them in the most engaging way possible. Many challenges will come our way — we will need funds, government support, academic support — but hey, where’s the fun in walking the straight road?

So we’re headed to Bengal, on a mission to find people, stories and sites to celebrate. We begin with Midnapore, where we meet a panwallah who dedicated his life to the discovery of ancient Tamralipti, and a local schoolteacher who is a bastion of folk history! If you want to meet them, come back next week for more on our travels and tribulations in Bengal!

* We find that many efforts to do good work die an unnatural death when they are stymied alternately by pedantics and corrupt people. We know there are a whole lot of you out there who see the gaps and would like to engage, but have neither the time nor the wherewithal. You can help us in many ways — share your knowhow of people and places, funding opportunities, ideas for development. Do connect with us if you want to jump onto the bandwagon!