UNDER THE BANYAN TREE

The village Somal, nestling away in the forest tracts of Mempi, had a population of less
than three hundred. It was in every way a village to make the heart of a rural reformer
sink. Its tank, a small expanse of water, right in the middle of the village, served for
drinking, bathing, and washing the cattle, and it bred malaria, typhoid, and heaven
knew what else. The cottages sprawled anyhow and the lanes twisted and wriggled up
and down and strangled each other. The population used the highway as the refuse
ground and in the backyard of every house drain water stagnated in green puddles.
Such was the village. It is likely that the people of the village were insensitive : but it is
more than likely that they never noticed their surroundings because they lived in a kind
of perpetual enchantment. The enchanter was Nambi, the story-teller. He was a man of
about sixty or seventy. Or was he eighty or one hundred and eighty ? Who could say ?
In a place so much cut off as Somal (the nearest bus-stop was ten miles away)
reckoning could hardly be in the familiar measures of time. If anyone asked Nambi
what his age was he referred to an ancient famine or an invasion or the building of a
bridge and indicated how high he had stood from the ground at the time.
He was illiterate, in the sense that the written word was a mystery to him ; but he could
make up a story, in his head, at the rate of one a month ; each story took nearly ten
days to narrate.
His home was die little temple which was at the very end of the village. No one could
say how he had come to regard himself as the owner of the temple. The temple was a
very small structure with red-striped walls, with a stone image of the Goddess, Shakti,
in the sanctum. The front portion of the temple was Nambi's home. For aught it
mattered any place might be his home ; for he was without possessions.
All that he possessed was a broom with which he swept the temple ; and he had also a
couple of dhotits and upper cloth. He spent most part of the day in the shade of the
banyan which spread out its branches in front of the temple. When he felt hungry he
walked into any house that caught his fancy and joined the family at dinner. When he
needed new clothes they were brought to him by the villagers.
He hardly ever had to go out in search of company; for the banyan shade served as a
club house for the village folk. All through the day people came seeking Nambi's
company and squatted under the tree. If he was in a mood for it he listened to their talk
and entertained them with his own observations and anecdotes. When he was in no
mood he looked at the visitors sourly and asked, " What do you think I am ? Don't
blame me if you get no story at the next moon. Unless I meditate how can the Goddess
give me a story? Do you think stories float in the air ? " ; and moved out to the edge of
the forest and squatted there contemplating the trees.
On Friday evenings the village turned up at the temple for worship, when Nambi lit a
score of mud lamps and arranged them around the threshold of the sanctuary. He
decorated the image with flowers, which grew wildly in the backyard of the temple. He
acted as the priest and offered to the Goddess fruits and flowers brought in by the
villagers.
On the nights he had a story to tell he lit a small lamp and placed it in a niche in the
trunk of the banyan tree. Villagers as they returned home in the evenings saw this,
went home, and said to their wives, " Now, now, hurry up with the dinner, the story-
teller is calling us." As the moon crept up behind the hillock, men, women and children,
gathered under the banyan tree. The story-teller would not appear yet.
He would be sitting in the sanctum, before the Goddess, with his eyes shut, in deep
meditation. He sat thus as long as he liked and when he came out, with his forehead
ablaze with ash and vermilion, he took his seat on a stone platform in front of the
temple. He opened the story with a question. Jerking his finger towards a vague, far-
away destination, he asked, " A thousand years ago, a stone's throw in that direction,
what do you think there was ? It was not the weed-covered waste it is now,for donkeys
to roll in. It was not the ash-pit it is now. It was the capital of the king. , . ."
The king would be Dasaratha, Vikramaditya, Asoka, or anyone that came into the old
man's head ; the capital was called Kapila, Kridapura, or anything. Opening thus the
old man went on without a pause for three hours. By then brick by brick the palace of
the king was raised. The old man described the dazzling durbar hall where sat a
hundred vassal kings, ministers, and subjects ; in another part of the palace all the
musicians in the world assembled and sang ; and most of the songs were sung over
again by Nambi to his audience ; and he described in detail the pictures and trophies
that hung on the walls of the palace. . . .
It was story-building on an epic scale. The first day barely conveyed the setting of the
tale, and Nambi's audience as yet had no idea who were all coming into the story. As
the moon slipped behind the trees of Mempi Forest Nambi said, " Now friends, Mother
says this will do for the day." He abruptly rose, went in, lay down, and fell asleep long
before the babble of the crowd ceased.
The light in the niche would again be seen two or three days later, and again and again
throughout the bright half of the month. Kings and heroes, villains and fairy-like
women, gods in human form, saints and assassins, jostled each other in that world
which was created under the banyan tree. Nambi's voice rose and fell in an exquisite
rhythm, and the moonlight and the hour completed the magic. The villagers laughed
with Nambi, they wept with him, they adored the heroes, cursed the villains, groaned
when the conspirator had his initial success, and they sent up to the gods a heartfelt
prayer for a happy ending. . . .
On the last day when the story ended, the whole gathering went into the sanctum and
prostrated before the Goddess. . . .
By the time the next moon peeped over the hillock Nambi was ready with another
story. He never repeated the same kind of story or brought in the same set of persons,
and the village folk considered Nambi a sort of miracle, quoted his words of wisdom,
and lived on the whole in an exalted plane of their own, though their life in all other
respects was hard and drab.
And yet it had gone on for years and years. And one moon he lit the lamp in the tree.
The audience came. The old man took his seat and began the story. ". . . When King
Vikramaditya lived, his minister was . . ." He paused. He could not get beyond it. He
made a fresh beginning.
" There was the king . . ." he said, repeated it, and then his words trailed off into a
vague mumbling. " What has come over me ? " he asked pathetically. " Oh, Mother,
great Mother, why do I stumble and falter ? I know the story. I had the whole of it a
moment ago. What was it about ? I can't understand what has happened ? " He
faltered and looked so miserable that his audience said, " Take your own time. You
are perhaps tired."
" Shut up ! " he cried. " Am I tired ? Wait a moment ; I will tell you the story presently."
Following this there was utter silence. Eager faces looked up at him. " Don't look at me
! " he flared up. Somebody gave him a tumbler of milk. The audience waited patiently.
This was a new experience. Some persons expressed their sympathy aloud. Some
persons began to talk among themselves. Those who sat in the outer edge of the
crowd silently slipped away. Gradually, as it neared midnight, others followed this
example. Nambi sat staring at the ground, his head bowed in thought. For the first time
he realized that he was old. He felt he would never more be able to control his thought
or express them cogently. He looked up. Everyone had gone except his friend Man the
blacksmith. " Man, why aren't you also gone?"
Mari apologized for the rest : " They didn't want to tire you ; so they have gone away "
Nambi got up. " You are right. Tomorrow I will make it up. Age, age. What is my age? It
has come on suddenly." He pointed at his head and said, " This says ' Old fool, don't
think I shall be your servant any more. You will be my servant hereafter. It is
disobedient and treacherous."
He lit the lamp in the niche next day. The crowd assembled under the banyan faithfully.
Nambi had spent the whole day in meditation. He had been fervently praying to the
Goddess not to desert him. He began the story. He went on for an hour without
a stop. He felt greatly relieved, so much so that he interrupted his narration to remark," Oh, friends. The Mother is always kind. I was seized with a foolish fear . . ." and
continued the story. In a few minutes he felt dried up. He struggled hard : " And then . .
. and then . . . what happened ? " He stammered.
There followed a pause lasting an hour. The audience rose without a word and went
home. The old man sat on the stone brooding till the cock crew. " I can't blame them for
it," he muttered to himself. " Can they sit down here and mope all night ? " Two days
later he gave another instalment of the story, and that, too, lasted only a few minutes.
The gathering dwindled. Fewer persons began to take notice of the lamp in the niche.
Even these came only out of a sense of duty. Nambi realized that there was no use in
prolonging the struggle. He brought the story to a speedy and premature end.
He realized what was happening. He was harrowed by the thoughts of his failure. " I
should have been happier if I had dropped dead years ago he said to himself. " Mother,
why have you struck me dumb: . . ? " He shut himself up in the sanctum, hardly ate any
food, and spent the greater part of the day sitting motionless in meditation. The next
moon peeped over the hillock, Nambi lit the lamp in the niche. The villagers as they
returned home saw the lamp, but only a handful turned up at night. " Where are the
others ? " the old man asked.
" Let us wait." He waited. The moon came up. His handful of audience waited patiently.
And then the old man said, " I won't tell the story today, nor tomorrow unless the whole
village comes here. I insist upon it. It is a mighty story. Everyone must hear it." Next
day he went up and down the village street shouting, " I have a most wonderful tale to
tell tonight. Gome one and all ; don't miss it. . . ."
This personal appeal had a great effect. At night a large crowd gathered under the
banyan. They were happy that the story-teller had regained his powers. Nambi came
out of the temple when everyone had settled and said : " It is the Mother who gives the
gifts ; and it is She*who takes away the gifts. Nambi is a dotard. He speaks when the
Mother has anything to say. He is struck dumb when She has nothing to say. But what
is the use of the jasmine when it has lost its scent ? What is the lamp for when all the
oil is gone ? Goddess be thanked. . . . These are my last words on this earth ; and this
is my greatest story."
He rose and went into the sanctum. His audience hardly understood what he meant.
They sat there till they became weary. And then some of them got up and stepped into
the sanctum. There the story-teller sat with his eyes shut. " Aren't you going to tell us a
story ? " they asked. He opened his eyes, looked at them, and shook his head. He
indicated by gesture that he had spoken his last words. When he felt hungry he walked
into any cottage and silently sat down for food, and walked away the moment he had
eaten. Beyond this he had hardly anything to demand of his fellow-beings. The rest of
his life (he lived for a few more years) was one great consummate silence.