Jungu, the Baiga Princess Read online

  ‘They are very bad men. Come, I shall take you to the village.’

  Once they were out of the forest and walking down a cart track, Sunil’s spirits revived though he felt tired and his leg still ached awfully. Jungu had called out once at the edge of the jungle but there was no answer. Now she called again, a long, low silvery singsong call, and they both heard with relief an answering shout from somewhere ahead. They walked ahead as briskly as he could manage and soon came to the Baiga village, a group of mud huts with thatched roofs built inside a tight square. Jungu answered all the quick questions flung at her by her people gathered around, but he understood none of it for it was all in her own language. The only charpoy in that tiny village was brought out from the headman’s hut and Sunil was made to recline on it while Jungu rearranged the leaf bandage and added a fresh warm poultice. A woman that Sunil took to be Jungu’s mother gave him a tasty, slightly astringent broth to drink.

  Jungu’s father sat on the charpoy, looked at him and laughed out aloud, banging his axe head in merriment against the mud floor of the courtyard.

  ‘Chota Sahib! You are in for trouble!’ he roared with glee. ‘You have found yourself a very troublesome loogaee! I know her mother. This girl is worse than her!’

  Sunil felt in all honour he had to stand up for Jungu, without whose help he mostly probably would have been dead by then. ‘No, Babuji, she is a very good loogaee,’ he said stoutly though he did not understand what that meant.

  Jungu’s father let out a whoop. ‘See, your donka accepts you!’

  Everyone was laughing and chuckling at their expense and Sunil was quite good humoured about it, except he didn’t like being called a “donka,” hoping it did not mean “donkey” in their own language.

  ‘Tadkma!’ said Jungu sharply as Sunil tried to scratch round the edge of the bandage. ‘And you must keep it clean.’

  Sunil stood up and Jungu told everybody in Hindustani that she would see him safely back to the dak bungalow.

  Her father was still laughing as he said goodbye. ‘Come back when you are a grown man, Chota Sahib. Only don’t come for Phag, for she will beat you then! When you come, we will all get drunk on mahuwa for three days. I know she will wait for you!’

  Sunil blushed as the meaning of the words sank in, and merely nodded as they turned away. But Jungu seemed to have heard nothing and briskly led him down the path.

  The shades of evening had lengthened as they reached the dak bungalow. At the edge of the clearing, Jungu just waved him forward and ran back without a word. Sunil tried to call to her but before he could raise a shout she was gone. He suddenly realized how tired he was and without a word limped into his bedroom and fell on his bed. Motu came in, took in the scene, and went out without a word. Sometime later Sunil was woken up with a gentle shake of his shoulder. His shoes and shorts had been removed and his pajamas slipped on quietly. Motu stood there with a tray of tomato soup and hot buttered toast. Sunil was helped to sit up and eat with the cook saying not a word. Then as he lay back, Motu covered him with his blue silk coverlet and went out, quietly closing the door.

  Jungu meets Uncle Vish

  Even through his tired slumber, Sunil was conscious of the thick bandage round his stiff left knee, but surprisingly it hurt very little. Soon the dull throb subsided into occasional twinges and he fell into deep sleep. A jumble of thoughts and scenes raced through his dreams, of which he could remember very little later, but three times he saw Jungu covering him with his coverlet and each time the golden stars left their blue home, circled round their silver moon, and all of them together settled like a circlet round his injured knee. Jungu smiled her sweetest smile at him and he woke with an answering smile on his face while it was still dark outside. Through the chirping of early morning birdcalls he heard raised murmurs and then a shout. He heard Uncle Vish’s voice, and then Motu said something, and then Jungu’s light voice was speaking calmly. He hopped out of bed in alarm and hobbled out onto the verandah.

  An astonishing sight met his eyes. Two policemen stood on either side of Jungu lightly holding her arms, while she held an earthernware tile with some burning incense on it. Uncle Vish was arguing with Motu the cook. Matt the Prof, dressed in bright purple-striped pyjamas, was walking into the verandah blinking his eyes and yawning prodigiously. Chamanlal Singh was coming from the back at the double, trying to squeeze his bulk into his khaki jacket. Mr. Dubey, already neatly dressed for the day’s work, came out of his room and spoke sharply to the policemen who stiffened and clicked their heels in attention.

  ‘Sir, this wild girl was on the roof with this burning substance doing some mischief. We took her into custody, Sir!’

  Mr. Dubey turned sharply to the girl. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Jungu,’ she said fearlessly looking him straight in the eye.

  ‘A jungly thief, Sir,’ said Chamanlal Singh in a loud voice. ‘She should be arrested and sent to remand school in Raipur, Sir.’

  Motu the cook couldn’t resist butting in though most other times he would have been too scared to open his mouth in the presence of policemen. ‘I know her, Commissioner Sahib, she is a Bhinjwari gunia, very powerful – she was only purifying the bungalow, Sahib, as protection …’ Mr. Dubey glared at him, and he stopped short.

  ‘Why is she here?’ asked Uncle Vish reasonably.

  ‘The chota sahib is hurt,’ said Motu in a small voice.

  Uncle Vish turned, saw Sunil with his pajama leg rolled well over the bandage on his knee, and his eyes darkened with concern. ‘Sunil! Good God! What have you been up to? That knee needs looking at – take away that stupid mess of leaves! Sunil, it is your duty to tell me if you get hurt. I am busy with so many other things and can’t be attending on you like an Ayya.’

  Uncle Vish sounded quite angry but Sunil knew that he was just anxious about his hurt.

  All attention was turned on Sunil. Hot water was ordered and Motu, much relieved, ran to get some. Matt the Prof said he had received a medical degree before he turned anthropologist and everyone made way for him as he knelt beside Sunil. He very gently undid the bandages while Sunil told them all in short summary what had happened, stressing how Jungu had helped him. A policeman who had been sent to get the first-aid box returned with it and the professor gently peeled away the last leaf. Sunil winced more from fear than any pain.

  ‘Absolutely dry! Remarkable!’ proclaimed Matt the Prof displaying Sunil’s hurt knee where a dark crust had already begun to form over the cut. ‘Yes, I have heard about this Baiga treatment, the latex solution of the Euphorbia neriflora cleaning and healing a wound with great efficiency.’ He turned interestedly to Jungu. ‘Thuha? Thuha?’

  Jungu nodded.

  ‘And the Calotropis gigantea heated to bring down the swelling, very neat.’ He cleaned the periphery of the wound, applied a powder from the first-aid box, fixed a nice new cotton bandage, rose and shook hands with Jungu. They conversed easily in Gondi for a few minutes.

  ‘Your cook is right,’ said Matt the Prof with a huge smile. ‘She is a Bhinjwari priestess all right, half priestess half princess actually. You would be amazed, Vish, her lineage is older than that of the British Royal family – than

  any royalty in fact – lost in the dawn of humanity. I have heard rumours about this girl but never knew what to believe. Never thought I would be lucky enough to meet her highness!’

  Motu had reappeared once again carrying a huge tray laden with a teapot, cups, hot toast, butter and jam. They all sat down for their chota-hazri, as Motu called their pre-breakfast snack, and the policemen reluctantly let go of Jungu who sat down on the verandah’s edge, dangling her legs into a flowerbed. Everyone ignored the girl. No one offered her even a glass of water. Sunil stood around uncomfortably till he was pulled into a chair, for really he didn’t like sitting with them while Jungu sat on the floor.

  ‘What’s all this mumbo-jumbo, Matt?’ asked Uncle Vish,
swallowing a mouthful of toast. Mr. Dubey discreetly took a sip of tea while watching everyone through his sharp eyes.

  ‘Like I said,’ Matt the Prof spoke softly, still savouring the moment. ‘The Baiga culture is an ancient one, full of esoteric knowledge of medicines and maybe magical cures, who knows? There are more things between heaven and earth Horatio, and all that sort of thing, Vish. Every now and then, as the legend goes, a princess is born to them with remarkable powers and I think this girl is the last of that line. Just think, Vish, nothing but an extraordinary power could have cured Sunil’s wound so quickly – ask any doctor.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ said Uncle Vish matter-of-factly. ‘The boy is young and healthy. No great mystery there. The trouble with you, Matt, is that you are a romantic.’

  The professor did not take offence. ‘Life without romance is a barren desert,’ he said grandly.

  ‘Maybe, but young Dubey here and I have a job to do – a very prosaic one, and we can’t let your dreams make us believe these people here are anything but ignorant tribals who must be civilized and relocated for their own good. Incidentally we can also save what is left of the environment from their wasteful ways.’

  The professor shot out of his chair for all his bulk and stood goggling at Uncle Vish. ‘What do you mean, wasteful?’ he demanded. ‘They have been practicing no-till farming for forty thousand years! It is the most holistic ecological system – and the most efficient! I’ll show you. Hey! Motu! Motu!’

  Motu came running out.

  ‘Get me some grain, any grain, quick, a bag of grain!’ ordered the professor.

  Motu came panting back lugging a bag of wheat.

  ‘Now watch this carefully, Vish, Mr. Dubey, watch how precise and scientific their measurements are,’ said the professor in great excitement. ‘Here, Jungu, how much is a toma of grain?’

  The girl took out two handfuls of wheat out of the bag, and poured it back.

  ‘That is a quarter of a kilo – just 250 grams, mark that!’ said the professor.

  ‘How much is a suria?’ he asked.

  ‘Th ree toma,’ said the girl with a smile. ‘And a kuro is twelve suria, and a khandi is twenty kuro.’

  ‘That is, a khandi is equal to 180 kilos,’ amplified Matt the Prof. ‘A systematic measure from one unit of 250 grams to more than seven hundred times that! If that is not scientific, what is?’

  ‘All right, they live on the edge of scarcity and work out how small their margins are,’ said Uncle Vish with a smile.

  ‘No! They are productive!’ Matt the Prof almost yelled. ‘Let’s ask this girl – without ploughing, mind you, so they don’t deplete the soil – Jungu, answer me carefully, if you sow one kuro of grain, how much do you get?’

  Jungu thought a bit, and then said with a smile, ‘Ten or fifteen khandi of kutki or kodo, but half that if you sow mandia.’

  ‘So! Two hundred to three hundred times productivity if it is a millet, and one-fifty times or more if it is ragi,’ said the professor with some smugness.

  ‘The Inca Empire I am sure bettered all that,’ said Uncle Vish, stretching out his arms to flex his shoulders, ‘and they too were illiterate and they are gone, so what point are you making?’

  Matt the Prof looked at him incredulously. ‘And what have we got in place of that empire? Peru, a poor third world country, that’s what we have got, dependent on foreign aid, and an illegal exporter of dangerous drugs!’ Right?’

  ‘The Government of India is not planning on making Baigas a world power,’ said Uncle Vish with a smile. ‘Come Matt, Dubey, we better get ready – we have a lot to do, finalize the plans, and do the best we can for these poor beggars.’

  He was turning away to go to his room, when the professor stopped him with some desperation. ‘Vish, Vish, you owe me one more chance to put my view across. This girl is here – if we had hunted for her in a millions years, we wouldn’t have found her. So, let’s take her along just for today and let us ask her to show us – you – what medicinal pharmacopeias, what nutritional wealth, the jungle possesses for them. It’s an ancient important culture. You owe me this chance.’

  Uncle Vish looked at him, and then nodded with a smile. ‘Okay. Let’s have it your way. We take a holiday today, we go round with the girl, and relax. Okay, I am all for fun.’

  Then they all went in to freshen up and get ready, Matt the Prof excitedly telling Motu to give Jungu whatever she wanted to eat. The big disappointment for Sunil however was that Uncle Vish absolutely forbade him to accompany them in the jeep, insisting that he needed to rest his knee. So he wistfully waved them all goodbye as Jungu turned to give him a little smile, and then he went back in to pick up a copy of The Wind in the Willows , which he had chanced upon two nights ago.

  Night had fallen when he heard the jeep struggling up the hill. Sunil limped out to the verandah and as its headlights swept round a curve he once again got a glimpse of the emerald eyes of hundreds of deer bedded down in the valley below. Jungu wasn’t with them – most probably they had visited her village and dropped her off there. No one said anything as they washed up and settled down to dinner. It was the professor who finally broke their hungry silence.

  ‘You must agree, Vish, that the girl had a remarkable knowledge of the jungle. Her society is a cultured one.’

  Uncle Vish looked up thoughtfully from his plate. ‘Yes. They have survived all these centuries in there. Yes, they know their way about, and yes, they impart skills to their children – who should be in school.’ He dabbed his mouth with his napkin. ‘One thing I will promise you, Matt, I will personally see to it that Jungu is put into a primary school, though she would be much older than the others, and I will pay for her education out of my own pocket, if she will study up to matriculation. If she is diligent, I will even see if she can be appointed as an attendant in the local district kutcherry!’

  The professor looked at him unbelievingly. ‘You will make her a peon. A Peon! A Princess into a Peon! I cannot believe it!’

  Uncle Vish threw his napkin on the table. ‘Matt, join the real world! There is no tribal princess – just a very poor illiterate girl who will turn into an old woman before she is thirty. What do you want the government to do? Abandon them to their fate? I shall take care of her, I shall take care of all of them but not here – this jungle will become a tiger reserve. We will move them near a village in the plains with access to a primary health centre and a primary school, and we will give them some land to plough. Yes, I know your objections, they won’t remain Baigas, but at least they will become Indians!’

  And that was that. Sunil physically felt the anthropologist’s disappointment. His shoulders sagged as well in sympathy with the older man and all of them went to bed without much more being said.

  The Night Raid

  Suddenly, what had previously been a vague concern of grown-ups had become a matter of vital interest of his own, and a tragedy that was to befall a people had become Sunil’s own personal pain. How could his uncle be so callous, so oblivious of what was real, even when facts were pushed right under his nose? Matt the Prof had been right all along, he saw that clearly now. Busy people like his Uncle Vish didn’t understand the forest, or the tigers that lived there, or the Baigas. His short encounter with them had shown him how happy they were in their forest. Jungu, who was only a girl, was quite fearless in the forest, because that was her home. She knew more about plants, which one would heal a wound and which one would cure a fever, than grown-ups from the city. It was just not right that the Baigas should be told to clear out of their forest, their home. No one had the right to make them leave. It was no use saying, well, that was how grown-ups thought. He would be a grown-up one day but, he decided, he would not think like Uncle Vish. He would do what was right by the Baigas, by his little Jungu. Yes, but by then they would all be gone and Jungu would have been made into a servant, ordered about by fat men sitting smugly in c
hairs in dirty offices. He choked at the thought, and started coughing, so he had to get out of bed and drink some water.

  Sleep would not come easily but gradually, despite all he was suffering in his head, he dozed off fitfully, the pain in his heart worse than any he had suffered in his knee. In any case the golden stars and silver moon of his coverlet had once again formed a ring round his wound and were curing him better than any stupid ointment out of that stupid first-aid box. He had fallen into a deep restful sleep when the stars rose from his knee and gathering in front of his eyes blazed forth so brightly that he woke up with a start. Jungu’s face was pressed against the windowpane, and when she saw he was awake, she beckoned him to get up and come out. He dressed hurriedly, pulled on thick socks, his walking shoes and a sweater, and slipped out as quietly as he could. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It was just past one o’clock in the dead of night. Jungu had already gone to the edge of the clearing round the dak bungalow and he could dimly see her figure waiting impatiently for him.

  She ran on ahead towards the long road leading to the jungle and then jumped into the low ditch that ran parallel to it on one side. He slid in without much difficulty, his knee feeling perfectly okay, he noticed with surprise.

  ‘Jungu, why are we in the ditch?’ he whispered.

  ‘We do not want to be seen, that’s why,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s go as fast as your leg can carry you.’

  ‘Oh, it is all right. Thank you for curing me,’ he said a little self-consciously.

  She didn’t answer but ran on in a crouch, looking watchfully in every direction like a little animal, he thought. He followed as best he could, as noiselessly as he could manage until they stopped under the shelter of some trees.