HISTORY

As I saw those three houses, standing in succession, silent and still, on the verge of decay, my heart swelled with a satisfaction that was most incomprehensible .I could not fathom what really were my feelings I rapidly clicked photos to catch the objects of interest, but my heart was wandering elsewhere. My experienced hands adjusted the focus, but the memory that had been firmly planted in the subconscious mind, through a narration of my father, started gushing in. The exhilaration that had been threatening to surmount me since I had laid my eyes on that crumbling palace, coursed through my veins. The memory was old, but I wanted to travel to my past and I hurriedly jumped into the rented car to be taken to the palace of Kushanganj. My roots were there and I wanted to a part of it.
The three hours that I had to wait before I could step into the palace, had seen me fidgeting about, unable to sit still, unable to control the excitement and unable to focus on the passing breathtaking sceneries that would have had me scrambling for my camera at some other time. My passport was enough to convince the caretaker that I was trustworthy. He let me in assuring me that I could take my time and take photos. As he walked away I entered into the ‘durbar’. My feet had slowed down on their own. I found myself walking cautiously as if one heavy footstep would set the palace collapsing. Then suddenly I heard a footstep. As I stood motionless a series of footsteps could be heard rushing past. Then came voices. As I stared at the empty room bewildered, my susceptible imagination suddenly hurled me into the past.
Yes! It was certainly a time of celebration. The ‘dasi’s were scuttling from one part of the palace to the other, putting some fresh flowers into a vase or polishing the ornaments that were to be adorned by their Rani Rashmoni. It was certainly a happy time for her. As the palace was getting ready for the grand ceremony of the evening, Raja Kushan Singh entered the ‘Antar Mahal’ with a proud smile on his face and a huge box in his hands. The Rani first looked at him and then at the box in his hands. The Raja himself answered the question in her eyes. “A gift in return for the gift you are giving me. My Rani has to look her best in the best day of her life. Doesn’t she?” The Rani, overcome with emotion opened the box and gazed wonderingly at the sparkling diamond set in her hands. But before she could voice her joy and wonderment a terrified dasi came running in. She breathlessly said “Oh! Raja. You must hurry. The kingdom has been attacked by the neighbouring army.” Rani Rashmoni’s gasp of pain was drowned under Raja’s swearing voice. “You take care of Chhoto Rani. I will be back soon.” Without even turning towards the Rani he strode away. His footsteps were punctuated by the sound of the cannon. It was the dasi who saw Rani doubled up with pain. Another shower of bullets were heard. As Rani’s elder two sons came rushing into her apartment, the dasi pulled the unyielding Rani from the floor. “Barasaheb help me hold your mother. We must get her out of the palace.” She said. The youngest boy, frightened by the deafening sounds of the guns clung to his elder brother. Together they slowly took Rani away from the palace through the secret tunnel. They emerged into the farmhouse of the Raja. As the Raja fought valiantly against the enemies, the Rani fought to bring a new life into the world. As a rain of bullets brought Raja’s lifeless body to the ground, the first cry of his youngest son was heard.
It has been six months now. The Rani on her way back from the pond stared at the three huge houses that were being built on the hilltop. She had built a house for her children herself a little way from the farmhouse. It had just one room where the Rani and her three sons lived. She had successfully hidden her identity. If the enemies knew that the Raja still had his wife and now his three sons alive they would have killed all of them. But the Rani was safe now. The news was spread that the two elder sons were already dead and the Rani had died while giving birth to her third child. The day was etched on her mind when she had taken her child in her arms and had realized that the small boy would never know who his father was. She also remembered her wild impulse to end her life too. But the thought of her three sons had stopped her. Now as she stared at the three houses that were being built she cursed them. Her heart cried out “the way my home remains erect but empty, in the future your houses will also be in this state. It will stand there still and silent with no one to make it a home.” She turned away and walked slowly back to her home.

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Eleven passed by. Rudrakumar, the eldest son of the Rani took charge of the household. He was old enough to get married. His best friend Ramdev was trying to persuade him to come meet his sister. These two were very good friends. But even he didn’t know Rudra’s past. But the prince himself remembered everything. The night the neighbouring army had attacked their palace, his father’s death, the birth of his youngest brother and his mother’s slow transformation from a Queen to a sufferer. Rudra was highly intelligent. He knew that Ramdev’s father was very powerful. So he decided to go meet him.
Ramdev’s father Ishwarchandra was an eminent bourgeoisie. He always wanted to marry off his daughter to Rudra. He believed him to be very intelligent. That day when he came to meet him, Ishwarchandra welcomed him into the house, gave him refreshments to eat and slowly broached the topic of marriage. At this Rudra said he was willing to marry her but there was a condition. Intrigued, Ishwarchandra asked him to go on. Taking a deep breath, Rudra began his story.
Twenty minutes later, Ishwarchandra’s respect for him had increased by twofold. He agreed to Rudra’s proposal that he would help him to get back at least some of his property. He also promised to impart education to him. So Rudra began to study. Through sheer hard work and determination, he got admitted into a law college and soon became a successful advocate. In the meantime, his father in law had sent his army of followers and had managed to get back some of the property. Rudra built three other rooms near his own home. Though Rudra got back some of his property, he didn’t get back his title of ‘Barasaheb’.
Rudra’s wife died eleven years after their wedding. She was an ailing lady. Whenever she used to go to live with her in laws, she would be attacked by a bout of malaria. Her father would bring her back home, but her firm mother would send her back the next day saying that married ladies always lived with their husbands. Her failing health at last took her away from her husband and here three sons. Their ‘mama’, and grandfather looked after these three motherless orphans. After their mother’s death they all shifted to a place a little away from their present home, Ranipur. Their house was built on the bank of the River Krishnakali. The middle son Devrup was the most intelligent and hard working among the three of them. He had all the good qualities of his father. He was an obedient son, a serious learner and a hard worker. All these characteristics made him more endearing to others. He studied with great eagerness and like his father got a chance to study in a good college far from home.
When he attained the marriageable age, a proposal came from an eminent Zamindar of Kushanganj, Rajballav. He wanted him to get married to his eldest daughter, his favourite among seven. She was a well-known beauty. Her name was Krishnakali. The proposal was agreed to and the preparations of marriage began to take place.
Krishnakali did not stay for many days in her in laws’ house. Her husband had found a transferable job and so she had to shift from one place to another. They at last settled in Calcutta. They had two sons and a daughter. The middle son was my father.
This was the story of my ancestors. When I was bedridden with a bout of influenza, he had told me this gripping tale. I had pushed it to the back of my mind and as I grew up, it never disturbed my peace. But when my photographer’s job brought me to Kushanganj, my memory was jogged and I remembered this thrilling tale. My susceptible imagination relived this tale in this palace. As I got into the car to go back, I looked back in acknowledgment of the palace of Kushanganj, my palace of Kushanganj.