Godavarish Mohapatra
Translated from the Odia by
Supriya Prasanta
The cycle of birth and death continued among the two hundred thousand inhabitants of Khalikote. Many left this world, many were born—such news remained confined within family and neighbours. But the day, Maguni left this world, the news spread to every nook and corner of Khalikote. Whoever heard this remained silent for a moment in sadness and muttered—‘Maguni died? Alas, the poor man died.’
Who’s Maguni? He wasn’t the king of Khalikote; that was for sure. Everybody would confirm that he wasn’t the king of Khaliote. He never joined the Satyagraha movement nor did he pay levy to the king. No one ever adorned him with a garland nor did he ever garland anyone. He never gave a speech before an applauding crowd. He did only one thing—he battled hard to make ends meet. This battle was not meant for his nation or clan, but for his own survival. And yet, all who heard about Maguni’s death sighed—‘Alas, the poor man died!’
If you asked anyone in the fort, they would tell you who Maguni was—he was well known even in the remote villages down the forests. Maguni was a Nobody—he’s a mere bullock cart driver, two bullocks and himself—he had made a union of these three, which had touched the hearts of the inhabitants of Khalikote.
Everyday, the sun rose and set over the fort of Khalikote. During the rains, people might not see the sun, but know the time of the day, thanks to Maguni’s routine. In the chill of Magha, villagers might be sitting in their verandas, wrapped in blankets, but Maguni would pass by riding the cart, a song on his lips. People said that Maguni was like home to them. The rains might get delayed in arriving, the heat of sun in the summer might be less, but Maguni’s cart was never out of service a single day. He said that there were two motorcars at the king’s palace, true, but there was no driver like him, and so his bullock cart was better than the king’s motors. His two dear friends of twelve years—Kalia and Kasara—the moment he massaged the bollocks with his hands, it was as though, his cart took on wings. When he sat on the cart and sang, smiling—‘Rama and Lakshman went to kill a deer…’ his cart would start moving. Echoes would be heard from among the green leaves of trees and the passes between the hills. The half-asleep red winged black birds would respond to it, the village street dogs would start and howl that would stir the village. The cart would move towards the railway station noisily.
When the fifty-year-old Maguni along with the two bullocks, his friends of twelve years drove the passengers, the past seventy, eighty years flowed like a story. He would first talk about his life—there was a time when his parents were alive; those days, he lived in plenty and slept peacefully on a bed. He got his fill sitting at home—he had forgotten all the cares of the world listening to someone’s sweet words. He had built a kingdom in his dreams. In that kingdom, he was the king. The woman he had brought as his queen had filled his life with laughter. He drank nectar from her lips, he glimpsed the world in her glances, he smelt the fragrance in her breath, and he saw flowers blooming under her feet. But his dream did not last long. The woman of his dreams left for the other world. He anticipated that he would meet her in the next birth while riding his carts twice a day from villages to station and station to villages.
While carrying the travelers on his cart, he would tell them his stories which brought tears to their eyes. He himself would wipe a drop of tear or two in his torn stole and caress the bullocks, and start telling another story. The passengers would arrive at their destination, but his stories would never end. He said—Who hadn’t sat on his cart? Yes, the king of Khalikote, but everyone else, they might be a dewan, a manager, a lawyer or moneylender, or the disciples of the Mahatma, had a ride on his cart. When he told these stories, he narrated them with such enthusiasm that he would forget to spur the bullocks if they stood still. When he got aware of this, he would comment—these animals were also eager to hear these stories.
Maguni’s cart and his bollocks might not be a large part of the history of Khalikote, nevertheless, they were a few pages of that history. That history said—his bullock cart knew everybody in the region. Numberless child-widows had returned to their parental house from their in-laws’ riding on this. Numberless smiling daughters-in-laws have travelled to their in-laws’ place from their parental house. The day Gada Raul of Mandal village went to jail failing to pay the levy—that day the belongings of his house were carried to the door of the king’s court on this bullock cart. The lawyers who had defended in favour of the king had a ride on his cart. The ryots have been sent to jail, handcuffed on this cart. This cart witnessed it all, happiness and sorrow. The dry straw mattress of this cart had been wet with tears of its passengers, and it had burst with feats of laughter, too.
When Maguni drove his cart narrating all this—Maguni appeared as though he was a living history. If ten such histories were brought together, that would be as monumental as the Konark in Odisha.
One day, Maguni heard that people would no longer travel on his cart, because the Singh family would bring a motor vehicle. As soon as he heard this, he laughed uproariously, and said—Motorbus? Would that surpass my Kalia and Kasara? After feeding them to their content when I would caress them, would people leave my cart and go to that motor bus? Everybody laughed at his words, but he didn’t bother. A few days passed, and indeed, a motorbus arrived at the fort. Carrying twenty people at a time, it would run forty miles at a stretch. Would Maguni be able to compete with it?
Maguni was filled with anxiety when he saw the motorbus which looked like a demon to him. He could not weep, true, but he was almost on the verge of tears and said—that day I had been to the meeting at Kodala. Someone said—handmade things were better than machines. Then was not my cart better than the motorbus? So many people heard this at the meeting; would not they understand my pain? If the workers didn’t understand, I would go to Gandhi. He was a friend of the poor. Would he say this Maguni should die and that Singh should prevail?
Singh’s bus ran from the station to the fort. Maguni’s cart ran too, but the bus would get filled up in no time, and his cart, empty. No matter how early Maguni readied his bullocks and waited at the station, people took the bus. Even though he spread new jute mattresses on it, people ran to the bus. No matter how earnestly he requested them, they would turn their head towards the bus. A few days passed. He used to have two full meals a day, now he had a single meal. He used to have rice, now he had rice water. Gradually, he remained without food for whole days. The bones on Kalia and Kasara could be seen. When he wept holding on to them, some remarked—he had gone mad and some said he could not see reason.
The day villagers broke the door of Maguni’s hut and brought out his corpse, they found Maguni had closed his eyes forever, his stick lying under the torn mattress. The pyre was set on fire; birds flew away from the smoke in the sky. Two hundred thousands of people of this world heard this news and sighed—‘Alas, Maguni’s died.
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