Sudeshna ChowdhurySeva, a city girl, was travelling to a remote school where she had volunteered to teach. Vidyamandir, situated in Laal Matir Desh (the country of red mud), functioned as a philanthropic wing of a mining company. The school was built with neat prefectures of one-storied structures consisting of classrooms, staff quarters, hostel, music room, library and a rudimentary shack that made up for a kitchen.
Surrounded by a contiguous harmony of green rolling hills, the country of red mud was harnessed by the silvery waters of river Rupali. A rustic way of life was still predominant among its inhabitants. Agriculture was their main occupation. Mud huts huddled together in clear patches of land made up for homes where peacocks, stray chickens and goats persisted harmoniously.
But five years hence, with the progress of the school electricity had arrived, automobiles plied freely, Internet was available, and construction work had set pace. Now speedy motorbikes and booming loudspeakers treaded into the stillness where a few years ago only stillness had stood. Gifts of technology were now titillating the lower senses but there was time for slander.
The afternoon had set in by the time Seva arrived. Being a weekend, the school premise was mostly empty, so no one had seen her coming. She left her suitcase in one of the staff quarters and had something quick to eat before going out for a walk. The splendid sun, open vistas and a rainbow arc had infused a rhythm into her otherwise measured gait. Today, after a very long time she was feeling fresh. Perhaps it was the urban meanderings that she was tired off. Here in this land things were simple. No high rise, no artifice, and hence less bother.
Seva had inadvertently carried herself deep within the woods where she noticed a blue-black girl sitting by a mango tree. Attired in an orange sarong she had her hair tied in a bun adorned with purple blooms. Her build was stout, her face astonishingly sharp. An aquiline nose, full lips, round cheeks added a conventional orthodoxy to her face but it was her two lotus eyes that spurred Seva’s attention. They were velvety red. The girl looked at the intrusion sternly and inserted her flute into her kamarkasai (waist-band) while Seva fell to the ground.
****
The mud hut that confined her was spacious and well ventilated. She was surrounded by scores of women dressed in bright beautiful sarongs and flower head gears. An unusually tall girl was staring quite hard at her. Chitrangada (the warrior queen) had perched herself in a corner. Huge peacock feathers were jutting out from her head bun and the blue sarong that she wore in a tight enunciated her athletic built. The contours of her eyes were well accentuated with blue smudges. She had high cheekbones that lent sharpness to her face.
Seva didn’t know what had caused the faint but her entire head was now aching. The thick smear on her forehead smelled of herbs. The arrow wound on her shin was wrapped up with leaf coatings. She felt the elegant Sitalpati on which she was lying. The leaf-strewn mat felt smooth and cool. Soon she drifted into a sleep.
****
The Shaktas were an all-women warrior tribe inhabiting recesses of forests where the foliage was dense, and sabre-teeth animals lived in abundance. They were a tribe of 100 women living together in a community, dutifully carrying out rendition of Bhairavi, the first member of the tribe, who had started this force since human habitat took shape in this region. The members of the tribe were chosen from villages and trained to uphold the tradition as protectors of the land. They had a reputation for sparing no intruder but in Seva’s case, they had shown restraint because she had veered into their domain accidentally. For years, under the alert gaze of these women warriors, the occupation of the forests had been rendered impossible. The women within the fold always carried weapons, and groups took turns keeping night agile.
The Shaktas utilised the whole expanse of nature with a lot of grace, but their personal lives were inhabited with everything less. They axed trees, grew crops and lived ceremoniously within nature. Hard labour had bestowed upon them a kind of gain that was rare. They had taut skin and arched backs. An overall muscular framework formed significant part of their constitution.
****
The generous spirit of the tribe had set her on a recovery trail, and before long Seva found herself freewheeling through their much-protected vistas where sweet-smelling dizzy-inducing purple-white flowers bloomed in thousands and mango trees grew in abundance.
Seva realised that substantial time must have passed since her arrival. Her well-clipped nails had now grown long and her hair needed much attention, but her caretakers refused to relent when she insisted on leaving. It would be the panchayat, a five-member team of tribal seniors who would take a decision on her. For now she was told to wait it out.
She had particularly grown close to two girls-Bansuri and Mrignanayani. Bansuri, with the might of her flute, could gather animals into a huddle, and Mrignanayani, a deer-eyed beauty, was named as such. Often Seva and her newly minted friends went for midnight swims. It was underneath those shimmery stars that they shed all their inhibitions and gamboled around like tender-aged girls, taming their bodies to the cold caress of the water that fed the land.
It was one such night, devouring and dark, full of sky and no breeze. As a foreboding no leaves stirred in presence. A viscous mugginess was setting in, and to improve the situation Seva and her friends decided to firm up for a swim. Halfway down the road, they noticed a gathering of armoured vehicles, police jeeps and uniformed men wielding guns. The land was rich in iron, and it was the bright ferrous substance that the profiteers were after. Negotiations had failed as the villagers, and the Shaktas had refused to yield. The forests and the land were theirs first.
An unsettled Seva quickly bundled herself up in a safe corner from where she could witness the effrontery while her two friends headed back to their coterie. It was time to render their duties.
In a while, a vulgar commotion took shape. The stillness of the forest gave way to a thousand echoes. The ground was shaking as voices boomed and crashed in dazzling synchrony.
“Ei zongol, amago ongsho. Demuna hoite kokhono dhongsho.”
(This forest is part of us; we shall not allow its destruction).
Villagers carrying iron rods, bamboo bars, sickles and other contraptions were now marching in droves. The Shaktas were there too. Armed with chiselled weaponry, bows and arrows, they seemed all battle ready. Their primitive weapons were a bit too antiquated for the times, but that night it was their spirit that mattered. Even the annihilators could not help but respect the gathering of the forest people. But there were orders from the top.
As gunshots were fired, bows went up, and arrows landed in a whoosh slashing through the uniformed men. There were overlapping sounds of pain, cringe and screams as bulldozers started rolling and spreading through the huddle, crushing over bodies and flattening them into a smear. Before long, it was raining bullets. The tumult ensued for a while, but once the guns had rested, the impalpability of the silence stood out.
When the first ray of light appeared, Seva emerged from her hideout. She caught a glimpse of her exhausted tear-touched face in a cracked rearview mirror of a van. Her round face appeared rough and all worn out. She felt a tight knot around her stomach. Her knees were shaking. A devastating trail of destruction lay in front of her. There were limp fists whose strength had deserted them and contorted faces that spoke of the night’s ordeal. Her two friends, glued by death, were lying next to each other. Bansuri’s flute was muddy but still intact and Mrignanyani’s beautiful kohl-laden eyes were wide open as if staring into nothingness. Humans in gloves were using their feet to untangle knotted appendages. The red mud was full of such irreverence. Seva was vigorously scanning the space for any detectable signs of élan vital. She coursed her way towards an easily identifiable Chitrangada whose lifeless form was vested with an odd tilt because someone underneath was trying to put away the limp load aside. Attired in an orange sarong, she had her hair tied in a bun adorned with purple blooms. It was the blue-black girl. Seva left the country of red mud with her.
