SIREN
DEBASIS SAHU
“Bijoy, can I play in your team?” Debasis asked his best friend. He was standing with the rest of the group in one corner of a huge ground; a football match was about to begin.
“I am sorry, Debu. I always lose the game because you cannot run ….”
Debasis felt sad. He experienced an epiphany of sorts. He strolled towards the back of the goal post, kicking small pebbles on the way. The cool, sweet scented humid air promised an early monsoon. A bank of dark clouds gathered above his head. He looked up at the sky, fluttering his eyelids, as the rain fell on his spotless face.
He stuck his tongue out, letting the water droplets fall on it. He tried catching them by shifting his head around. He gathered as many as he could before swallowing it. The languid afternoon suddenly changed its hue and color. Debasis thought it was unfair. Even God favored his friends. He accused the almighty of nepotism. He knew the fun of playing football in the rain. His friends could now slide and kick the ball in mid-air without the fear of getting hurt. The rain increased its pace rapidly; changing from a trickle to a torrent.
The grass blades which merrily recovered their posture from the falling droplet now remained hunched against the onslaught of non-stop pouring. He heard one of his friends whistle; a signal to start the game. And soon he could hear cheers and booing at every goal scored and missed.
Debasis watched his friends for a while. Depressed at not being able to join in the fun, he walked back to his house; which was just a short distance from the ground. The sound of bells from the nearby temples cheered him. Debasis was born in Raghurajpur, a village close to Puri, the religious hub of Orissa state.
His birth brought mixed emotions for his parents. They were happy to be blessed with a son. Like most of the people in the village, his parents also believed in the old Sanskrit phrase, ‘Putrarthe kriyathe varja’ which meant, ‘we marry with the sole aim to have a male child to keep the clan progressing’. On the other hand there were moments of sadness when they looked at his left leg. It appeared weak and under developed. As he grew his walk became awkward and painful. Over the years, the pain subsided but the limp remained. It became quite noticeable when he walked briskly or ran.
The physical limitation narrowed his choice of games. The limp forced him to abandon most of the outdoor sports popular around his village.
“Debu, why don’t you go out and play with your friends?” his parents asked him once.
“No one wants to play with me,” Debasis answered, with an hurt expression.
“Then play some indoor games.”
“Alone?“
His parents had no answer for that.
“Dada, I don’t want to play any game.”
He would then sit in one corner and draw insects and flowers which were his close companions. His parents looked at him in despair. They thought it was unfair.
His limp became a favorite subject for discussion, especially when the villagers gathered in the evening to play the game of ‘Ganjifa’; a popular pastime in Raghurajpur.
Unlike regular cards with which the city folks played, the Ganjifa cards depicted the pictures of God. They were hand made using traditional materials. Even the graphics were hand drawn. The colorful and visually soothing images attracted Debasis. The game fascinated him. It required immense concentration and powerful memory. The challenges of the game thrilled him. His father always invited him at these assemblies.
“Debasis want to join us?”
“What is the point Santanu. He will beat us. You know your son is a champion,” his father’s friends would reply in unison.
Painting was his only passion, playing the game of Ganjifa emerged just a byproduct of his handicap.
The Ayurvedic doctors; locally called the ‘Veds’, informed his parents that there was a cure for his limp, but he would have to go to the city for the treatment. The opportunity never came because Debasis lost his parents at a young age. His close relatives fostered his well-being and education. They sent him to Puri Gurukul, a local school, run by the temple’s governing body.
His artistic talents were recognized at an early age by his teachers. They informed the administrators of the temple’s governing body who went out of the way to teach him ‘Patachitra’, the art of religious painting. ‘Patachitra’ had a history of great antiquity. It covered themes and events from Indian mythology.
But ‘Patachitra’ like other art forms was slowly disappearing into the abyss of changing times. Everyone in Puri wanted him to be the ambassador of this unique art. He was considered an erudite painter, a genius. No one had seen such a talented artist in the history of Puri Gurukul. His paintings adorned the walls of many sacred places in and around the temple city. He was called the Monet and the Renoir of the east.
After completing his formal education and training in arts he continued his life in school as a drawing teacher. A couple of years later his Guru fell ill. Just before his death he called him to his chamber.
“Debasis, the time has come for me to bid adieu to this beautiful journey called “Life“. I am sure after my death you will find yourself lonely once again.”
Debasis looked at his Guru. He saw pain in his eyes.
“I want you to fulfill my last wish.”
“Guruji, I am honored.”
“I want you to spread ‘Patachitra’ all over India. The art is dying. I want you to resurrect its lost glory.”
“Guruji, from now on your wish will be the goal of my life. It would be a perfect Guru Dakshana.”
His Guruji smiled at his strong sense of commitment. A week later his Guru died.
Debasis continued teaching at the local school. He held back his impatience. He wanted to embark on his mission at the right time. Very soon the opportunity came. The head master of Gurukul called him one day.
“Debasis, there is good news for you. A government school in Cuddalore, a small town in Tamil Nadu, requires a drawing teacher.”
“I will apply immediately.”
“I am glad. With your help, ‘Patachitra’ will once again spread its wings all over India. This is just a beginning. There is still a lot of hard work to be done. You have promised this to your Guru.”
“I will do my best.”
“Go, my son. The blessings of Lord Jagannath are with you.”
“Sir, this mission is important for me. I won’t return until I fulfill my promise.”
Debasis was immediately enrolled as a teacher. His references were impeccable. The paintings which he sent to the school authorities impressed them.
The year was 2004.
Debasis was a pleased man. He decided once his mission in Tamil Nadu was over he would move deeper into Southern India. He gave himself a time frame of ten years to accomplish his Guruji’s vision. Everything moved along fine. The school authorities were happy with his teaching abilities. They liked his idea of incorporating ‘Patachitra’ in the drawing syllabus. But destiny had other plans. In the month of November, a massive tsunami hit Cuddalore.
It ripped through the small village leaving him traumatized and in a state of extreme distress for several weeks. On that fateful November afternoon he was in the class; explaining his students the meaning of tertiary colors. Fifteen minutes before the final bell, a sudden rumble across the school periphery forced Debasis to halt. He tried to interpret the loud noise; unable to find any logical answer he continued with his class, after a brief pause. The second rumble which followed warned him of serious danger. This time he was sure it was an earthquake.
"It’s an earthquake, Sir," shouted one of the students.
Debasis nodded in affirmation. He strolled out of the classroom. He looked around the premises. Hushed but scared voices emanated from almost every section of the school. Debasis asked the children to move out into the open. The other teachers followed suit. Finally, the head master, an arthritic man, sauntered along the long corridor with a stick in his hand.
“Debasis. It seems like an earthquake. Should we send the children back to their homes?”
“Yes. I would feel comfortable if they were out of here and with their families.”
“Okay. Then pass the message, will you.”
But before Debasis could convey the news to others, the first powerful wave hit the shore. The school shook violently; it was just two hundred meters away from it. The fear immediately turned into screams which echoed throughout the school.
Everyone stood their ground. Debasis turned around and looked at the sea. He saw a tall, cloud like formation approaching in their direction. The size of the object shocked him. It was a wave. The monstrous shape moved in their direction at an incredible speed. Even the teachers carried an expression of trepidation.
“Run for the higher ground,” Debasis screamed, as the first watery sheet hit the school compound wall. Everyone rushed forward, climbing the small sand dunes. Debasis stopped, turned around and urged the slower ones to move quickly. When he reached the top of the crest, he looked back once again. He could see several students and a couple of teachers near the school; frozen with horror. The wave was just a few feet away from them.
“Come on. Hurry, Gautami. Run fast. Shiva, look behind…..” Debasis shouted at the top of his voice.
Before he could complete the sentence, a huge wave swallowed everyone.
The towering waves continued their merciless pounding. Unable to bear the brunt of non-stop hammering, the school buckled, disintegrating into pieces. Everything happened in seconds. Debasis was speechless. All that remained was just an extension of the sea.
Debasis mumbled and staggered away, gasping as he collapsed back against the sand dunes. The rest of them hit the dry sand at the top. He looked at the watery grave as if expecting a miracle to happen. But all he could see was floating debris and bodies.
“Sir, the water is rising. Let us move out of this place,” shouted one of the students, dragging him before the next avalanche of water fell on them.
“But there might be survivors. They might need help,” Debasis muttered.
“No one can survive those waves. Look around Debasis. Every house along the shore has been wiped out,” said one of his fellow teachers.
The rushing water now climbed up the tallest sand dune. The next wave knocked Debasis and others on the ground. Hands out of nowhere dragged him, till he finally managed to stand on his feet. Everyone ran towards the village screaming in desperation.
Gradually the waters entered the village. The waves lost their intensity but people were forced out of their homes. Roads vanished, houses submerged, utensils glistened in the water and bodies wedged in the trees. Twisted pieces of metal and broken wooden furniture bobbed up and down. Debasis coughed out the saline water from his lungs. Tears rolled down his cheeks, amalgamating with the dripping water from his hair.
Nature’s assault finally stopped, leaving behind misery and pain. Occasional cries and moaning ricocheted around the village.
The natural calamity changed Debasis. He became a recluse. The loss of several students played havoc with his psyche. By sheer celestial intervention the death toll in his village remained low; his only solace.
He wandered around the village during the day and spent the nights with the locals. He helped the people to rebuild everything. Slowly things began to normalize, but the phantom of tsunami tortured him for several weeks.
The incident left him gasping and groping for emotional support. The worse was yet to come. Even after normalcy returned to the village there was no sign of school officials or the government bureaucrats. His hope turned into desperation when his money started running out. He had to act fast. When he was convinced his school would never get rebuilt, he wrote a letter to his friend in Mumbai. He later phoned him from a Public Call Office.
“Hello, is that Krishna Das?”
“Yes.”
“Krishna, this is Debasis.”
“Debasis, how are you? I received your letter. Sorry, I could not reply.”
“Krishna, things are not good here. Everything was destroyed by the tsunami.”
“I know. I read your letter.”
“I need your help. Could you find me a teacher’s job somewhere in Mumbai?”
Silence echoed from the other side. Debasis could here some voices. An argument? Finally Krishna’s voice came back.
“Okay. Come down to Mumbai. I will try my best.”
“Please give me your address.”
A momentary pause ensued while he jotted down the address.
“I will come as soon as I am finished with the paperwork. Do you need anything from Cuddalore?”
“No, thank you.”
Debasis disconnected the phone and sauntered towards the payment counter.
“How much?”
“Fifteen Rupees.”
“This is ridiculous. I spoke for just two minutes.”
“No, it was close to five.”
“You people are nothing but cheats.”
“Then why don’t you go some other place,” the owner retorted.
It was obvious, the owner wanted to recover the money he lost during tsunami. Debasis looked at him with contempt. He wanted to lecture him on ethics and morals; on God and his ways of punishing crooks like him. But he did not. His mind was occupied with something more important. He tried to interpret his friend’s reaction. He felt disheartened at his response. Debasis thought his friend didn’t want him to come to Mumbai.
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