Translated from the original Kui; “Memoirs of a Kondh in Konark”, by K. Kasturi. Culled from a series of conversations held over a period of six months with the famous tribal leader Rojalin Kondh, instrumental in the rebuilding of the Konark Temple, this is the first such written account of a Kui. Basic facts have not been tampered with, but some liberties have been taken in embellishing the account to make it more reader-friendly. 

Surya Dev Mandir – Konark

It is midnight and I am wide awake. Outside my hut the moon is in full bloom, the only flower in the sky today, so bright that its lustre envelops the whole firmament, the numerous stars which usually abound are not to be seen with the naked eye. The sea waves rise up and up hugging the moonbeams tightly on the one night that seems to come very rarely. As though a humongous flashlight in space is directing my steps on the ground, I walk softly, almost blindfoldedly, like a cat who knows its whereabouts, especially when the lights are out. My eyes can see only and only the silhouette of the temple ruins from afar. I am drawn to them each night and I follow the call. I have not slept in months, perhaps years. Perhaps I sleep when I am awake, perhaps this is not the reality but a dream. How do I know which is which! Do I care? All I want is for the Lord to have his own abode, the way it once was, full of splendour and magnificence. The grandeur of which brought ships to crash against the seawalls, the fame of which brought the marauders all the way across the continent to this Eastern shore. I float in my dreamlike waking state towards Konark, that corner where Surya resides and is yet to rise, for it is not yet daylight.

I have had trouble sleeping ever since I witnessed Swamiji’s murder. They came and sprayed bullets into a frail chest and left with a stern warning. Those of us who know them intimately realise that they cannot be taken lightly. This was the ninth and successful attempt on his life. He left his body, but he is still with us. None of us have forgotten, nor have we forgiven. We never will. They threw their pamphlets around and took pictures so that they could threaten us later if we went against their command. I am one of the reasons he was killed. I will have to live with this burden as long as Ma Taarini wants me to be on this earth. I am paying the price everyday, bit by bit.

I pick the stones from the rubble muttering a Kui prayer, it is directed towards the Sun God, I am confident that He understands me. Full moon nights are my favourite. I can accomplish a lot more. I have so far cleared twenty-two rubbles, a tiny space has been created in this section which has been cordoned off by the ASI, but who checks at night! No one. And who checks by the day either, no one! I am the only one who knows every stone, rock and rubble that has filled up this deul. Swamiji would tell us how it was blown up by the Britishers or was it the Portuguese? So many of them come now to take photos and selfies with the wheels of time, they sit by my hut, drink the tea that I make, and buy my products. I speak to them in the English I learnt from Esther akka, and they are surprised.

Why, can’t a Ku girl from Belghar speak the white man’s tongue? They are spellbound by the wonder of the architecture and the brains that imagined this whole temple, the concept of time and its expression that is enshrined here in stone. I can hear them describe it excitedly to their parents, lovers, teachers, friends over the phone, over their computers. Yet, they are in a state of disbelief when they hear me speak in English! A human can carve marvels in stone, and a human can learn to speak eloquently in any tongue, even if a tribal.

I must have recounted the story of Kalapahad and how he became the first person to destroy this temple, many many times. He was the first musalmaan to desecrate this spectacular astronomical structure, there were many after him who followed his example. Time and again they came here with hate in their hearts towards sublime beauty and poetry, they came with ignorance of both science and technology, they came with raw might seething against the perfection of the pagan, and they struck with their hammers to break not build. I can understand why they wanted to smash all this. It is not easy to manage envy, or jealousy even. They eat away at all the goodness in the heart, without a second thought.

And then to see all the maithuna figurines! That must have definitely angered them into action, even if they had no such intention when they came here on their horses screaming jihad. I remember the sermons that the pastor gave us in the church deploring the sinful Hindus, their vulgar and hungry ways where the body was concerned. Sin. sin. sin. That is the word I heard constantly in those days. A Christian or a Muslim, for them the ways of nature are haraam. I had found it so funny when Esther akka had tried to teach me these concepts. That part of the bible I never could really appreciate nor understand.

My hut-shop is my haven during the day where I meet people from all over the world. They send me gifts from their countries when they reach home, thankful for an honest chat, a sincere story. And for my embroidery, my baskets, the crafts that I sell to keep afloat and anonymous. All the money I make with my hands goes into the bank account that I started recently. Volunteers came and showed us how, and I took out all the money from my two jholas, notes rolled up and secured in plastic, and handed them over at the counter to a pleasant lady. I am happy that they are in a safe place now, and that I don’t have to worry anymore if they will be stolen. I am saving it for the deul, when Surya Deb’s house is re-built, I will provide the roof for him. Just as Swamiji had dreamed.

During the night I am a different person. That is the time when I am paying back for my wrong deeds. That is the time when I do my duty towards Swamiji. He gives me strength and keeps me going. I dream of the day when the shikhara is back in its place, but first I must clear the stones and the debris. I have developed muscles in my arms over the past few months hammering the big rocks, carrying away the smaller ones to the outer perimeters. I am not scared. Ma Taarini is always with me. She is kaalratri and scares away whichever bhoot pishaach approaches me with evil intention. It was Swamiji’s ardent wish to see the Konark temple in its full glory, restored for worship, and I hope I can make that happen. I was the cause of his death, I want to be the cause of fulfilling his dream too.

It is not just me at night, I see a heavenly dancer among the ruins of the natya mandapa dancing in complete abandon. I hear her anklets, the clinking of her glass bangles, the thumping of her feet in absolute rhythm and precision. It is as though she is providing me musical company and allaying my fears if any. She looks ecstatic and ethereal. Of course, she is a ghost. Or an apsara. She always bows respectfully to me when I enter, so much honour she accords me, I feel shy. What a cultured lady, why can’t the day time people behave so too? Her refined manner enthralled me and I pondered over her identity while clearing away the rubble for many weeks. Until one day at the Chandrabhaga Dance Festival, I saw a poster, ‘in honour of the great Odissi guru, the late Smt.Sanjukta Panigrahi…’ aha! So that was her identity. Why was her spirit still stuck here in Konark? Perhaps she too had some promises to fulfil, like me. Hearing about her at the beach festival, I feel privileged to be her only human audience every night, in her encounter with the gods.

It has not been an easy transition at all. For a Ku like me to find solace in the harsh sun on the beach is not a holiday as you might foolishly assume. Some tourists look at me, at my basket weaving and embroidery, with kind patronizing eyes. I can sense their pitiful glances piercing through my back. They are surprised that I can speak Hindi well and even manage a bit of English. They do not make an attempt to learn even a few Odia words while visiting, such is their arrogance and ignorance. I doubt if they can completely comprehend that I am a Khond girl who is alive despite everything, and making a living against all odds, that their one purchase will help me keep alive the memory of my people, my community, my gods. That their validation of this Khond skill that I have will assuage the terrible guilt I carry with me everywhere, as though pregnant with it.

Belghar

My village is Belghar, near the hills of Daringbadi which you might have heard of, it is not a tribal name, it was named after a Britisher called Daring. Who either lived there or ran away from the plains to our hills during the frightening summers. I can well appreciate why. I feel the same in April, May, June…here in Konrak, although I am close to Bura Pennu who created the earth and all of us on it, I want to go back to my mud and bamboo house with its palm leaf thatched roof, nestled in the forests with waterfalls, to sit at my mother’s feet and hum leisurely, while she combs my hair and swoops it inside into a side bun, decorating it with various clips, looking at me lovingly and admiringly. I want to be able to see her tattooed face with her three nose rings covering her ever-smiling teeth as would the evening clouds the moon. I dream of the silver glistening in her ears with rows and rows of ear-rings that shine like fish swimming in formation, while we play in the Doluri waters. I hear my father’s laughter as a distant echo, as he drinks palm wine and leisurely pours a cup for my mother. But, I have no option. I am a key witness to a political murder, I know more than I should, and I can never go back.

It is a miracle that our village survived the missionaries. Around us every village had 20-30 churches, some villages had churches even when there were no Christians. There is a lot of money in this business. When poor villagers have problems, the church is ready to give money, send kids to school, pay for medical expenses…promising them a government job….and suddenly there is one more person in the church. This way the pastor makes money both from the villager as well as his foreign master. A lot of these churches have loudspeakers that blare anti-tribal speeches daily. They are very mean and unhappy people. Those who cannot let others be, are. Therefore our village council decided to not allow any foreign fellow or pastor into our territory, we put up signs at the entrance into our areas that Christains are not allowed, and this created a huge hue and cry.

It became big news and we were taunted for it, politicians and other leaders came by to ask us to remove the sign but we are tribals, Scheduled Tribes, and have a lot of legal rights in India, and therefore they could not force us to remove the board altogether, though we did have to move it a bit into the interior. Anyway, no one comes so deep into the jungles and hills except for the missionaries, the evangelicals. Or the poachers.

Given this history of my village and how the village council took such a brave stance against any conversion from ancient ways of life, my decision to marry a Scheduled Caste Pano, did not go down well in my village, and I was ex-communicated. That is also why I can never go back….and my parents, even though they can come and live with me here in Konark, they will not, as they will not be happy in the plains, in the heat, by the ocean. They are hill people, they are forest dwellers, and they hunt. The very thought of them buying vegetables and meat from a shop hurts my heart, I cannot let them suffer for my mistakes, although they already are…they are probably the laughing stock in the village – parents of a daughter who married far below her, that too to a man who sold himself out for a few rupees.

It is not that there is any sudden increase in respect after conversion either, churches are always separate for us tribal converts, we cannot hope to be on par with the city people. Or with the foreigners who look down on us for being backward, greedy for selling our souls, for having no self-respect, and prey on us for money and lust. My husband, foolish that he was, he thought he was climbing up in life! While the Hindus, of course, cut off relations with us for leaving our ancestral faith, our traditional modes of worship, and customary beliefs, for something that is not of this land. Either way, we are caught …..the best times were when we were left alone, when no one knew of us nor ‘discovered’ us…when no one spoke our language and we were free to be …with the elements and the animals and plants and birds and bees….such times may never return ….not for me …

Daringbadi

We are tribals, vanavasis, and since our village was close to the Forest Department Guesthouse, it has always been visited by people from all over the world. I have always posed for pictures since I was a child. They come and look wide-eyed at everything, asking the same question again and again, saying the same phrase again and again…vaav vaav vaav…do you like it here, do you enjoy living here? Of course, we like it! This is our home, I wanted to tell them, but at that time we had no interpreters, and I did not yet speak anything but Kui. I lost my shyness slowly interacting with these tourists who were mostly well-meaning, they taught me to come out of my shell. Many came just to take pictures and go, but others brought us old second-hand clothes and blankets and distributed them among us. We would accept with gratitude and later, once they left, take them to the animal shed and leave them there to keep the sheep and buffaloes warm, which were getting ready for meria, our ritual sacrifice of animals. It is wrong to disrespect the guests and their gifts, perhaps for such an insulting act, we are being punished with one tragedy after another. Many came wanting to take videos of our way, of our women with their ornaments and hairdos, some to document our way of rainwater collection and taps, which we fashion out of bamboo. All this is simple really, very natural, I do not understand why there is so much praise for something so normal…

Ever since my first visit to the weekly market in Daringbadi, I would pester my mother about going there again, and then again. She would give me permission reluctantly saying that the ways of the city would spoil me. She was right. I started disliking being restricted to my small village only and wanted to see more of the world. There is a rope bridge across the river that you must cross to get out of our village, it is a single rope on which we very carefully tread one foot behind another while sometimes holding a cycle, sometimes animals, or a baby, to cross over to the opposite bank. One day a TV channel came to film it, and soon, one after another so many people came with cameras to show to the world the uniqueness of our village and its now-famous bridge. It was very strange to me. What was so special about this one rope bridge? I too gave interviews and we all sat and watched it at the Forest Department Guesthouse when it was telecast on TV. Everyone told my mother then itself that I was too big now to be happy staying in the village only. They were right.

I was always excited about learning more of the world, of others, how could I be satisfied with being confined to my village and my forest only? It was exciting for me to see the Bondas. Have you ever seen them? They are covered from head to foot in beads! They are the real tribals..more tribal than we are. They do not speak our language, no Hindi or Telugu even. They are very innocent and very trusting of everyone. We Kuis are not easily deceived by the ways of the world but the Bondas need protection. I shooed away a few men who came from the city to visit the Hill Tower, who had stopped by at the market and started troubling a few pretty Bonda women. They wanted to take photos. It is as though we are zoo animals for them. The city people are very rude and think of us as primitive and poor and pitiable. If only they knew how well we live. We eat and drink healthy, we live with nature, in nature’s embrace. All the animals and plants are our family, we sing and dance and dress up, put flowers in our hair and watch the moon and sunrise. We live the life that the city folk dream of for their holidays and they have the temerity to laugh at our ways.

So when I was promised a job at the Tribal Museum in Daringbadi I accepted without taking permission from my parents, excited to be a part of the bigger wider world. The whole community came to see me off when I started on my journey into the outside, which was but a few kilometres by walk. My job was simple, I had to dress up in traditional clothes and sit in the museum and do our embroidery that my mother taught me. Tourists would come and take pictures, buy a trinket or two, ask a few routine questions – name, family, siblings – and smile and leave. Sometimes they left money for me which I hid in the folds of my skirt until I went home and gave them to my mother with pride. She was always careless with it and left it here and there, and many times the flimsy notes flew away. It is not that she did not value my hard work, she did not know the value of the note. My mother, like the elders in my village, did not understand the outside world, or why I wanted to be away from them.

It was while working at the Tribal Museum that I encountered real outsiders; many many people from all over the country, sometimes from other countries too. I was very scared at first. I did not speak much, and when I did it was only Kui or Odia or a bit of Telugu, but slowly I started gaining confidence to speak Hindi, some phrases of English too. And that is how all my troubles started.

I deceived my parents when I started meeting him secretly by the Midubanda. We would walk up the dirt track and sit by the slippery rocks and eat warm badas that he would bring for me wrapped in an old Odia newspaper. Those came with green chillies which I loved to bite into, and he would ask me gently if I wanted one more. I was young and immature. I did not know of life beyond my village. It was because my parents trusted him that they let me talk to him and occasionally accompany him. We would take vegetables, meat, and handicrafts from our village to sell at the weekly haat at Daringbadi. He is a Pano, they speak Kui like us, he would visit our village and trade for us at the weekly market in Daringbadi. That is when I first saw him. He was a good man when I met him, he was honest too. But the greed of entering the modern world changed him, as it has so many people, including me.

Seeing that I was not just another tribal girl who was coy and naive about the ways of the world, the Baptist Mission Church sent one of their people to approach me, they handed me a bunch of bibles, and a wad of notes with a smile and asked me to go and talk to my people in my village. I was to teach them the superiority of Yeshu Prabhu. The greatness of the West being the proof that their god was better than ours. They would pay for schooling and also find us jobs they said. And we would no longer need to fear any government official as they would do our work for us – all the paperwork and bureaucratic work that is needed to be done when you apply for certain government schemes. Not to be outdone the Pentecostal Diocese also sent their representative to me offering double of whatever was being offered by the Baptists.

I did not like either of them as they made fun of my people and our ways. I was forced to attend a few of the church services where they abused our gods and encouraged us to break the murtis, and said that idol worship was evil, and that these were rakshasas not devas. They shouted from a podium at us, saying we must abandon our superstitions and come into the light! They talked of papam papam all the time. Our birth, our customs, our festivals, our beliefs, all was papam according to their Yeshu. I could not tolerate these constant insults. There were also many gullible and greedy people among us who lapped it up hungrily.

My husband was one such. He converted when they offered to pay for his education. They promised him a job too. He kept it a secret from me, if I knew I would not have agreed to marry him. But now my husband who became a Baptist without my knowledge goaded me to continue attendance at the churches as they gave away free rations and rice bags and money each time we showed up.

The ceremonies were all very funny and foolish. People jumping up and down, loud music and dancing for no reason, singing with strange words aaleloohaa aaleloohaa, it did nothing to my heart. I longed for our simple life in the village, dancing in groups, singing our folk songs, praising the mother earth, glorifying our ancestors and forest spirits. I could see what the churches were trying to do, they were breaking up families and communities. My husband’s parents were not given a decent cremation because he had converted and he refused to conduct their last rites calling it superstition. I fought with him all day that day and refused to speak to him, I was worried, would he do the same to me, if I died before him? What about our children? What would be their names, their beliefs? Would they be Christian too? He insisted that they would have to be. That is when I first thought of running away from our marital home in Daringbadi.

My husband had started beating me for being old fashioned and superstitious, for not following the ways of the church and not believing in Yeshu, he started kicking at the photo of Maa Taarini everytime I disobeyed him. Once I threw a pan at him, and he hit me, pushed me against the wall, and banged my head against it. I was bruised badly and my head was bleeding. I thought of the warm badas by the waterfall, all those good times and felt sad. What had changed? I was the same person. He began criticizing our old ways. He began laughing at my prayers to the forest spirits thanking them for the food…he said I was a fool to believe in all this mumbujumbu, that is the word the pastor used in the church. I was stunned at his transformation. Can money change a person’s mindset so much? How does it make him forget what he once revered? Before I get pregnant I must leave I thought. I could not go back to our village as I had married a Pano when my parents had warned me against him…now, I had nowhere to go.

To be continued..