Untitled - Katha

40 ◆
Ramgopal would one day become lawyers and let them breathe
in peace. The path was overgrown with wild shrubs and creepers.
They had to use their sticks to clear the way ahead. A drummer
lay prostrate before a trident wielding ascetic sitting by a statue
of Ganesha. On seeing them, the drummer got unsteadily to his
feet. “Hai prabhu, I am Pulu, the drummer.”
Harakanta Sarma was taken aback. “Aren’t you from Borka ...
or is it Mokhuli? Are you ill? Or is it opium?”
The drummer knelt at Harakanta Sarma’s feet. “Prabhu, I have
fallen on bad times. My elder son is very sick.” He grabbed at
Harakanta Sarma’s feet, weeping.
Harakanta Sarma stepped back. “What are you doing?”
The drummer wiped his face with the gamocha on his shoulder.
He said hoarsely: “He’s got tuberculosis. We have been
ostracized.”
“Who has tuberculosis?”
“My son, Gajen.”
“How?”
Debeshwar Sarma, who had been watching quietly, spoke up.
“I saw him last year, during the Deodhwani.” Pulu had come
with the drummers from Kaihati, Dimow, Borka and Mohkhuli.
Thirty drummers had accompanied the twenty one deodhas or
dancers, representing different gods and goddesses during the
annual festival. “Wasn’t he Bogola’s mount?”
Pulu was sobbing. He pressed the gamocha to his mouth.
“Hai Prabhu, he travelled all over Assam, learning to master the
drum. He even learned the tinipak ghurile and could make a
triple turn as he played. He trained with a master in Coochbehar.
Now he cannot leave his bed.”
“I heard he even learnt how to make drums.”
The Man from Chinnamasta