Non-Fiction
Psychedelic Sky, Pangar Rajah
artwork by amina
I was taking in John Lennon's psychedelic sky while standing off the highway leading from Rangpur to Kurigram. It was October 2005. The late autumn afternoon sky was painted in vivid green, orange, marmalade, red, and maybe even violet and indigo against a backdrop of soothing blue. If that, indeed, was what induced his psychedelic vision, the Beatle really did not have to be galvanized by any hallucinatory drug to have it. The view was, to use a hackneyed word, breathtaking. But this story is not about marmalade sky; it is about rajah of Pangar. I have maintained contact with the members of the Sharathi theatre organization of Rangpur, both for local logistical support, and use of its artistes for playing bit parts in television dramas that I have directed. One of them, Jahangir, aware of my interest in historical places and structures, told me about Pangar rajah. He told me about this curious character who would have been a rajah of the place called Pangar in Kurigram had the local rajah/zamindari system remained extant. Jahangir narrated the story from hearsay, but it was compelling enough to arouse my curiosity about an apparently eccentric man. In sketchy detail, here is the legend relating to the rajah who had never been actually one. He lived pretty much by himself on his estate in a modest house near his ancestral palace that had been destroyed in a massive earthquake several decades back, near the end of the British colonial rule. The cantankerous man lived the life of the proverbial hermit in a cave, except that he was surrounded by what, in bygone days, would have been his projas. Not only would he have nothing to do with any of them, but would actually threaten them with his antique shotgun, or a heavy lathi, if they ventured too close to his present premises. That sounded like a dangerous man, probably a maniac, but the story actually increased my curiosity to meet and talk with him. "He doesn't talk with anyone" from Jahangir dampened my enthusiasm a bit, but could not quite extinguish it. I was determined to at least take a look at the ruined palace. Until Jahangir's next bit of information jolted me. "He collects snakes. Lots of them." "What? You mean he keeps them in a cage in his house? What kind of snakes does he have?" "Gokhras. All kinds of them - black, white, huge, medium-sized. Other types. They are not caged. They roam freely on his premises. He takes care of them, they guard his house. They are his pets." It all sounded a bit far-fetched. Poisonous snakes as pets? Roaming all over his house freely, taking care of their benefactor-master? I felt like I was transported back to my childhood, when I read Bangla fairytales approximating what I had just heard. All the same, I was having second thoughts about visiting the crazy old rajah. Or, was he a magician who could tame dangerous snakes and had them at his beck and call? Snakes! I am not exactly thrilled to be in their vicinity, and it did not matter if they were highly poisonous, mildly poisonous, or non-poisonous. Shotgun, lathi, a surly, unfriendly crank, snakes - together they presented as formidable a zeal-dampener as any. But inquisitiveness won over queasiness, and I was on my way to Pangar with Jahangir on his motorbike, stopping on the way to lose myself in the psychedelic sky, and an overnight stopover at the house of one of Jahangir's friends. It was conveniently located a kilometer or so away from our eventual destination. We had three sturdy motorbikes among us. Jahangir and I were riding one, while his friends shared the other two. Six of us were taking the dirt road to meet the formidable rajah - we had strength in numbers and some heavy-duty fancy two-wheelers! And we were riding along the road from hell - or, so I had been given to understand. The dirt road itself was hellish all right - bone-jarring bumpy, dusty, with the occasional hairpin bends - but it redeemed itself by going through lush green vegetation, vast expanses of open green fields, and pockets of village communities on both its sides. The sight of the occasional cowherd driving forward a lonely cow/bullock or a bunch of cattle at a sedentary pace heightened my feeling of being intruders in a land where time had stood still, where our mechanized contraptions rudely broke the rhythm of a timeless lifestyle, one which might disappear altogether in the future. In the end, deftly directed by Jahangir's local friend, we reached our destination. To tell the truth, my first impression was one of disappointment. The decrepit two-storey building, big patches of black mold and grime overwhelming a once-white exterior, was bereft of character. It looked like it had been built twenty years or so ago. But the original palace had been destroyed almost four decades before that. Where, then, did the rajah and his forbears live during that gap of twenty years? It was a puzzle I fully intended to solve, but in the subsequent bustle of activities and time constraint, I forgot to look for the explanation, and have remained in the dark ever since. However, the outer boundary wall that separated the house from the fairly wide unpaved pathway definitely looked to have been built in much earlier times. As I came to know later, it was, and the state of its disrepair and thickness of grime as well as its design betrayed its vintage. At this point, I felt that Jahangir's story about the rajah had begun to show cracks. I first felt, and then saw, the good-sized crowd of local villagers who had gathered around us. And, then we were at the very gate itself, a ramshackle structure that looked ready to collapse under an able-bodied pressure, the anecdotal forbidding very abode guarded by venomous snakes and a hostile gun-toting lunatic of a rajah who never was, or could be, in Bangladesh. Jahangir was in close proximity, and I wondered if he had noticed that the locals did not seem to give a hoot about standing at the gate, right next to the wall of the premises; no serpents slithering, hissing, or being poised to strike, or any gunshot warning off intruders or even drawing blood from one or two unfortunates. To tell the truth, I was a little disappointed. At least the appearance of the mythical man with firearm in hand, ready to menace us, would have added a touch of romance, not to say danger, to my adventure! Maybe he was out on some errand. Nothing of the kind. I was assured he was present - and keeping an eye on us! The local who answered my voiced thoughts then carried out an astounding feat. He actually pushed open the gate, and led us, meaning the visitors and a few of the crowd, right past the house, where I caught a glimpse of a young woman with a baby sitting on the verandah of the top floor and looking down at us. We stopped in front of an opening in a high fence that separated the building from whatever was on the other side. It turned out to be a very large pond, with greenish looking water telling a mute tale of at least some neglect. Jahangir then pointed to a number of holes lining the exposed sides of the pond, and some dense shrubbery spreading out and away from one corner on the other side from where we were standing, and assured me that the poisonous snakes resided there. I became very wary, and could not wait to hightail it out of there. The intrepid local guide came to my inadvertent rescue. At some point he had quietly slipped away from our company, but had come back to give me the news that his majesty wanted to see me. Well, better him than any lurking, slithering creature. My first impression of the rajah was rather favourable. Of medium height, light skinned, well built, with an impressive curled-up military moustache, he cut an imposing figure. He had lost most of his hair, but he could not have been more than forty-five. His attire of a white vest hanging out over faded khaki shorts actually added a dignified aura to him. He was obviously vigilant as he told me that he had taken information, however sketchy, about me from the local, and thought it might not be a bad idea to have a tête-à-tête. Apologetic, he took me to the spacious garage, where an antique car, clearly well taken care of, stood out in fairly close proximity to a couple of unpolished, worn-out high tables, around which a few equally decrepit chairs lolled about. We perched on those, my traveling companions discreetly distancing themselves a few yards away from us, and our host ordered tea in overused cups, and inexpensive biscuits for all of us. He was evidently not well off. "They steal my paddy," indicating the villagers. So much for him being an ogre. "I don't have much farmland, but still I don't get much of the produce. They even steal fish from my pond." And, for the next two hours, until sundown, I conversed with Ronobir Narayan Kongor, whose forefathers had been hereditary rajahs of Pangar. It had once been a part of Cooch-Behar, until the day when one of his progenitors had carved out Pangar as a separate estate, and had gifted it to one of his sons. Since the abolition of the zamindari system, the estate had started dwindling until Kongor was left with a few acres of prime farmland, a modest two-storey house, and a large pond. "Do you have pet cobras?" "So they told you this fairy tale. There are snakes. Not many. Sometimes I catch them and give them to the government authority." "You don't threaten people with your gun now, do you?" "I have a vintage double-barrel. Do you see me with it? I don't carry it around. You'll hear all these stories. People don't like me much because I keep to myself. I have a young wife and two small children. I've to take care of them. How can I socialize with thieves who take away my means of taking care of them?" The rajah evidently thought he could take me into confidence. "Come on, I'll show you the ruins of our ancestral palace." We walked the short distance over his fields planted with vegetables, and soon gazed at the protruding corner of one end of the house. Although in ruins, one could make out the ornate work on the plaster. Kongor said that it was built towards the end of the nineteenth century, but the structure had collapsed during a massive earthquake, and had almost disappeared from view. There were snakes around, he cautioned. I could well believe that. He pointed towards the old palace temple in the distance, now showing signs of long neglect, but which palpably had once been splendid, and had miraculously escaped the earthquake's devastation. "In old days, the rajahs used to send their victims to the shool at the mandir," Jahangir enlightened me. I'm sure they did. There might even be a specter or two of the unfortunates around, but it was getting late, and we could not wait to explore the possibility of their sightings. "I believe there are family heirlooms and valuables buried there. I aim to dig up the place," said Ronobir Kongor. That was wonderful news indeed. I have no idea if he has carried out his desire, but the place should be excavated. History lies buried there. Priceless heirlooms may not exist, but a chronicle of the place and the Kongor dynasty would be in order. It would add to this country's history. As we were leaving, I saw Kongor revving up his antique car, ready to go for a spin. It looked like the 'rajah' was going to be in the restful company of one of the few things he cherished: his vintage vehicle.
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