The Bull of Babulpur

artwork by apurba

The strange feeling came when a jeep speeding ahead of his car knocked down a goat that had strayed into the crowded street. This happened at 5.14 p.m. For a minute, as was his habit, Boral reflected on the legal aspect of the accident. But as his car went a little further and his eyes fell on the bewildered face of the goat, it suddenly appeared unusually familiar to him. The next moment the chauffeur had adjusted the rear-view mirror and Boral had a glimpse of his own face. He was always honest with himself. He instantly knew why the goat's face seemed so familiar. He also realized that the resemblance was more subtle than external. It was the goal-like seriousness on his face and the goat-like detachment in his eyes that made the most important contribution to his success by inspiring an immediate trust in his clients. And the judges perhaps tended to patronize him, unconsciously though.

Boral looked at the goat again. It was dying. Its closing eyes gave out an expression of a total disillusionment with the world.

And it was then, at 5.15 p.m., that Boral felt within himself the birth of an ascetic. He too would one day be flattened--by a brutal and cynical knock from speeding time.

An aging Boral decided to spend the rest of his life in peace and meditation, away from the crowd and the court, somewhere in solitude. His own village had of late become a bazaar. But Babulpur, the village of his late maternal grandfather whose house and property he had inherited, made an ideal retreat.

The first bout of ascetic fever past, he realized that it might not be easy to break away from the profession all of a sudden. But he could certainly begin by spending his weekends in the village, passing the time in meaningful inaction, thereby bringing about a synthesis between his roaring practice and the newly grown detachment.

It did not take long to repair and furnish the house, lying unused for years, through the good offices of an unemployed uncle.

Then, one Saturday afternoon, Boral's car made its entry into the village.

Babulpur had never experienced the advent of a car. The raw, sandy road, luckily, was broad and relatively smooth. Children ran before and behind the car, celebrating the hair-raising event with ecstatic shouts. Folks gossiping and sharing a hookah on the middle of the road hurriedly cleared away, amazement writ large on their faces. Drowsy dogs stood up reluctantly and then realizing the seriousness of the situation, ran and barked furiously from yards away.

The car advanced triumphantly, bellowing and honking. But that the path of ascetic meditation was not strewn with rose petals became evident only a furlong away from the destination.

The chauffeur honked on, but in vain. The unemployed uncle who was racing with the car clapped his hands till his palms ached, and hissed till his tongue got tired, but again in vain.

The big bull did not bother to open its eyes. It went on ruminating.

Boral got down. 'You bull, get up, leave the road, I say!' he commanded with restraint and gravity. But since his words produced no effect, he picked up a tiny clod of earth and threw it at the bull's tail.

'Ha, ha! This monarch of bulls knows no fear, Sir, and would not care to obey even a Lieutenant Governor!' explained an elderly villager. 'What to speak of a car, can even a locomotive make it shift its tail unless it was its pleasure to do so?' commented another, while still sucking at his hookah.

Boral felt extremely humiliated. But he did not show it. He told the uncle in a tone which sounded normal, 'Will you please ask the owner of the bull to drive it off the road immediately?'

The uncle looked undone. 'But the owner is Lord Shiva, Sri Sri Babuleshwar, the presiding deity of the village,' he muttered apologetically.

The statement engendered a strong resentment in Boral. If he had decided to come down to the village for peace and high thinking, that was his personal and private matter. So far as the villagers were concerned, they ought to feel honored to have him amidst them. He had taken it for granted that he was going to be looked upon by the villagers as their greatest single pride. He suddenly and rudely woke up to the fact that he had a formidable rival--Lord Shiva--and here lay His most arrogant viceroy.

'Let the Lord's bull do whatever it likes in the Lord's own compound. How can it block the public road?' he observed in a matter-of-fact tone, without giving vent to his wrath. He was sure that the legal point he raised was incontestable. But another old villager disarmed him quietly and in a most casual fashion, 'This whole universe is the Lord's compound, sonny.'

Boral had no equal among his colleagues in the art of self-restraint. He would not allow the smoke of the burning he was experiencing within to come out. But at once he remembered an old tale his grandfather, also a lawyer, used to narrate. It was about a certain Sultan's daughter, notorious for her rudeness, who was given in marriage to a youth of extreme gentle breed. The bridegroom, however, had a lot of common sense and an uncommon strength of mind. He knew that if he was to look forward to a tolerable married life, he must impress the bride, at their very first meeting, with his temper and personality. Upon entering the bride's chamber, he saw her pet cat sharing the nuptial bed. The bride paid no attention to him, but kept herself busy caressing the cat. The bridegroom paused for a moment. Then, in a flash, he unsheathed his sword and cut the cat into two. The awe which the bridegroom thus inspired in the bride's mind went a long way in molding the latter's attitude and conduct towards him--to his benefit--for all their years together. The incident soon became widely known through whispers. It inspired a henpecked nobleman to carry a cat into his bedroom and cut it down in his wife's presence. 'My darling husband! if only you had cut the cat on our first night together!' said the wife, heaving a deep sigh.

It is the first impression that lasts long. Boral realized that he could not afford to appear defeated in this crucial encounter.

'I understand that there is a police outpost that recently opened here. Where is that?' he asked in a calm voice.

'There!' A dozen fingers were raised, giving him a wide choice of directions.

Boral left his car and the chauffeur behind the bull and asked the perspiring uncle to lead him to the outpost. A number of villagers followed them.

'I am Priyanath Boral, Advocate!' he informed the two constables who offered him smart salutations.

'But, Sir, the sub-inspector sahib has gone to the weekly market to buy cabbage,' informed one of the constables.

'Cauliflower, sir,' corrected the other.

'I want my car to proceed along the public road without having to face any hindrance. I ask you to do whatever is necessary.'

The uncle explained to the constables the nature of the hindrance the celebrated advocate's car was facing. Further, he confided to them how Boral was a dear friend not only of the superintendent of police, but also of the magistrate and the Judge sahib.

The constables put on their red turbans, armed themselves with sticks, and went out with the complainants, with visibly uncertain steps, though. Others followed them.

A crowd had collected around the bull and the car. The constable surveyed the situation in great earnestness. But before they could do or perhaps think of doing anything, the bull stood up and began walking. This sudden welcome change in the situation seemed to give the constables a tremendous morale boost. After the ceremonial march from the station and with an expectant crowd watching them, they could not withdraw that abruptly. Hence, both walked majestically flanking the bull. It was not clear to the crowd whether the bull was obliged to keep pace with them or they with the bull.

'So, the bull is really arrested?'

'What else? Do you think the sipahi sahibs and their sticks and red turbans are mere jokes?'

'Well, law is law.'

These brief observations were followed by many a sigh.

The size of the crowd swelled, with more women joining.

The people of Babulpur had never known such a queer, collective sensation. In their memory, the bull had been an intrinsic part of the geography of Babulpur. This bull, or its venerable sire who was no more, a bull had always been there, unchecked and unpredictable in its movements, verily the symbol of the free, immortal and invincible universal soul.

The bull was approaching the end of the village when an old widow came rushing out of her lonely hut and put a garland of jasmine flowers around its horns and prostrated herself before it.

Suddenly the people shouted, 'Jai Baba Babuleshwar!'

And they repeated the slogan with increasing gusto.

The bull took a turn.

From another house came some sandalwood paste which a Brahmin smeared on the bull's forehead, and the bull showed commendable patience in letting him do it.

From the next house came a pair of watermelons. Again, the bull displayed its understanding and munched them quietly. Meanwhile the constables had been provided with chillums of tobacco which they thankfully enjoyed before resuming their slow march with the bull.

After an hour's stroll the bull returned to the very spot from which it had started. It then slowly lowered itself into a relaxed position and closed its eyes and began to ruminate.

'Jai Baba Babuleshwar!'

'Jai to the great bull of the great Lord!

Suddenly a voice with an unfamiliar accent was heard struggling to make itself prominent during the short intervals between the shouts raised by the crowd. People became curious.

'My brothers and sisters!'

All became quiet. Boral had taken his position on a small mound. He extended his arms in the style of blessing the crowd.

'My brothers and sisters! Jai to the great Lord Babuleshwar!'

'Jai, jai!'

'And Jai to the great bull of the great Lord!'

'Jai, jai!'

'My brothers and sisters! This is a historic evening. This handsome, sacred bull is the glory of our village. Let us unite under the shadow of this bull and resolve to...'

Boral kept the audience spell-bound for half an hour, for meanwhile his urge had reached a new phase. Earlier he had decided to combine asceticism with criminal law; now he saw the prospect of following a new formula, bringing even a third element into his lifestyle--politics. He planned to seek election to the State Legislature.

Manoj Das has written both in English and Oriya and has won many awards.