Khagendra Sangroula is a Nepali author who is famous for his unique style of satire.
It was the first day of lessons. It had been appointed a name: the Adult Literacy Class. Three new, clear and bright kerosene lanterns dazzled brilliantly in the room. A few people gradually arrived as the dusk deepened. The first to arrive leaning on his cane and swaying in his kachhad wrap was the arrogant Somey. Close at heels came Katwal, who held a low opinion of the filching Somey. By eight o’clock a small crowd had gathered under the shed. Not a woman was among them. A few young men were there, with a lot more men of middle age and a few elders. To the right of the door was a large board hanging on the wall. A thin layer of straw had been spread on the floor and over it were arranged some straw mats.
The natives sat on the mats. Kapil and Sheshkant, their beards dense as jungles, stood on either side of the board. A stranger stood near Kapil – gaunt, tall, skinny like a new stalk of bamboo.
Kapil began the lesson. “Should I put out this lantern?” These were his first words addressed to the class. The natives who had congregated to listen to something new and learn something were astonished. It is a pitch-black night near a new moon. But, the bearded man asks if he should put out the lantern!
“No, sir! No! Would be disastrous!” Katwal protested to rid the itch on his eager tongue.
“But, why do we need these lanterns lit?” Sheshkant added to the elder beard’s threat.
“The night is thick, sir. We’ll become lost,” Somey, squatting in the front row and leaning against the wall with his crooked cane still in hand, replied in a subdued voice.
“How many in Simring village have the light in their eyes?” Kapil asked again, along with hand gestures. Those in the classroom looked at each other, some seemingly with a vague notion of understanding, and others without any comprehension.
“You could say there isn’t a single pair,” Katwal said, the wheels of his mind turning as he tried to understand the meaning of the question. “Maybe I am the man with the dimmest light in him. And, after me, may be Younger Uncle has some in him.”
“Katwal – what are you saying about understanding something or other?” Somey raised his voice a bit.
“I understand a little, Younger Uncle.”
“Tell us then – what do you understand?”
“The thing is, Uncle, sirs here are asking who among the villagers has the light of education in their eyes.”
“Oho! The boy seems to have some sense, after all. Or, isn’t that so, sir?”
“He is right, Somey,” Sheshkant affirmed.
“Even without the light of education in their eyes, the people of Simring have never stubbed their toes on the ups and downs of life and fallen on their faces. Nobody has had their knees knocked out by stumbling onto rocks. None has fallen into pits. No man has tumbled off a cliff. Nobody has drowned in the river. Or, have they?” Sheshkant staked out his argument.
A line of answers jostled for attention.
“Because our eyes are shut we stumble daily, sir, and fall on your faces.”
“As we feel our way forward in the dark we have fallen down pits, sir.”
“When our people have gone about without light in their eyes they have drowned in the river and died.”
Somey turned his head to every voice and listened attentively. Then he said, “What have you understood, and what are you talking about?”
“We have understood the talk about eyes, and now we talk about life. Younger Uncle – you are kin in name, and I don’t want to tell you off, but sometimes you are thick as a plank!”
“Katwal – if you understand half of what’s being said, why do you make as if you understand everything?”
“I have understood it all, Younger Uncle.”
“Of course, you have, you dunce!”
The two bobcats of the nettle bushes of Simring began snarling at each other. And, with the intention of sweeping aside their arrogance, Kapil appealed to Somey, “Brother Somey, regardless of anything, you have seen quite a few more winters than us. If we could please hear some things from your mouth...”
“If you, sir, command and say – Somey, tell us a thing or two! – it may be so that I could tell you a thing or two.”
“Please do, Somey, please,” Sheshkant moved to appease.
“What I reckon, sir, is that by light of the eyes you mean reading and writing. How well placed is my guess?”
“Very well placed, Somey.”
“You sirs have been talking in a roundabout manner. Stumbling, knees getting knocked out, falling into pits, tumbling down cliffs, and drowning in the river – my guess is that by this you mean to talk about how the rich folks and the upper castes have been tricking and cheating and wringing and draining dry the poor folks of the lower castes. Well, sir – how well placed is my guess?”
“Very well placed, Somey.”
Kapil addressed his question to Mangaley, who sat in the middle of the group, craning to follow the conversation, “Mangaley, what are your thoughts on this?”
“I support Uncle Somey on this, sir. No matter how long a rope is drawn, the ends always look the same. Now that I have lent it my ears and listened carefully, I think we are talking about receiving an education in order to light up our eyes.’
“What does the rest think?”
“That’s just what it is, sir,” Kaude Kanchha, sitting behind Mangale, watching with the one good eye he was born with, said in agreement, “The issue is resolved.”
Sheshkant scribbled three large letters on the board in Devnagari. And, with a pen in one hand, he scanned the room man by man, as if hesitating to pick someone to ask the question. A middle-aged man sat in the back row, near the wall. He decided that the man was illiterate, and so Seshkant showed the man the pen in his hand and asked, “Brother at the back – what is this?”
“It is a pen, sir,” the man in the corner answered innocently.
Sheshkant then pointed to the letters on the board and asked, “And what are those, brother?”
“All dark blobs of ink are as beasts to me. I call this a buffalo!”
“Katwal, tell us what this is.”
“That, too, is a pen, sir.”
“It was a buffalo to the brother sitting in the corner. How did it become a pen for you?”
“It may be a dim one, sir, but there is a light in my eyes.”
“May I say something?” Somey sought permission.
“Please, do.”
“A thought just came to my mind, sir – the truth is, the blind man sitting in the corner just now knocked his knee into a rock. But, Katwal, with his sight – he leapt across the rock and has reached the other side.”
“What does the brother sitting in the corner have to say about this?”
“They speak the truth, sir. I walked blindly, knocked my knee and fell on this side of the rock. Katwal had his eyes open, so he leapt across to the other side. The blind stumbled and fell, the sighted crossed over.”
“What does a pen do?” Kapil began, twirling the pen.
“A pen’s job is to write, I think.”
“What does a pen write in the setting of Simring?”
After a protracted discussion a conclusion was reached: a pen in Simring either writes letters to those who have traveled to India to work as servants, or it writes promissory notes to money lenders.
“Alright – let us write a promissory note,” Sheshkant proposed as he paced about the room. “Let us assume for a moment that I am the village chief. I have lent both Somey and the brother in the corner a hundred rupees each in their hours of need. We need to write promissory notes, don’t we? Should we write them?”
“Immediately,” Katwal said, trying to quell the excitement of his tongue.
In no time Sheshkant finished writing a promissory note on the board. After finishing it, he turned towards Somey first. “Somey – is this note correct according to the amount of loan you took out and the interest rate you promised to repay?”
Somey scrutinized every word with squinted eyes and said, “I find it alright, sir.”
“What was the amount borrowed, and what amount is written down?”
“Hundred rupees were borrowed, and the amount written down is also a hundred.”
“And, the interest?”
“Five percent per month.”
“Is that the amount promised?”
“That is, after all, how much the lenders charge us.”
“The promissory note is accurate, then, according to the terms agreed upon?”
Before the question was articulated, Katuwal, who thought of the arrogant Somey a pilferer, barged in to answer. “Absolutely alright, sir.”
Now Sheshkant’s eyes turned to the corner of the room. To begin with, he casually edited the wording of the note, and then asked, “Brother Kaudey, sitting in the corner – is this note right about the money borrowed and spent and what payment was promised in return?”
Kaudey stared at the promissory note on the board with bewildered incomprehension. Then he spoke, “Sir – I am but a blind man. How does a blind man tell apart what is honey and what is poison? Since my eyes lack any light, I am forced to accept the note as it is, sir.”
“So, you agree that the note is alright, don’t you?”
Kaudey took a long, defeated breath. The pupils of his anxious eyes trembled. He tried to say something but his lips didn’t move. He now vividly recalled the deception played on him through the game of promissory notes when Gopilal relieved him of his remaining two strips of paddy-rich land. He didn’t speak – he didn’t speak at all!
“You approve of the note, don’t you?”
“I have no other choice. To misfortunate ones like us all blobs of ink are like dark beasts...”
“Mangaley – your eyes have the light in them, don’t they?” Kapil called the attention of Mangaley, who had been watching the proceedings with the utmost attention and bated breath.
“No, sir,” Mangaley spoke in defeat.
“So – is this note correct?”
“But the blind don’t have the choice of saying no. We nod and grunt and agree, no matter what the moneylenders say.”
“Somey,” Sheshkant drew the conversation towards Somey.
“Just as I watched, sir, Kaudey walked into the snare laid for him by the moneylenders.”
“How is that?”
“How can you even ask that, sir? Because the loan amount on the note has already changed from a hundred to two hundred rupees. The interest rate has jumped from five to ten percent.”
“Kaudey – seems to me that we’ve lost grasp of the issue!”
Kaudey, didn’t speak. His face appeared pocked with the marks of hardship and calamities.
“What can a blind man like me say, sir!” said Kaudey from his corner and hid his face behind his hands. And, in the quiet air of the classroom spread the cold sighs from numerous men whose chests had been rent apart by the saws of deception and cunning of other, better-off men.
Now began the game of alphabet. Slate boards and pieces of chalk were distributed to the aged students. Then Kapil and Sheshkant held each person’s hand and guided them in drawing lines and curves and tails and necks, encouraging their wards to write the letters Ka, La and Ma to spell ‘pen’. The skinny man, who had been quietly observing with folded hands, also came forth to assist the teachers. Once the mature students had learned to write the assigned letters, the two bearded tutors started the game of moving the letters around.
Kapil spelled out Ma, La and Ma, the letters for “balm”. Then he thrust his eyes towards Mangaley and asked, “What might this be?”
Mangaley craned his neck and tussled with the letters on the board. It was torturous for him to recognize the letters. He counted one by one the three letters that had until just now been spelling “pen” and grappled with the new word with his gaze and with great difficulty tore apart each letter – “Ma, La, Ma”.
“What word does it spell?”
“I reckon it spells the word for balm, sir.”
“Mangaley seems to get the drift,” Katuwal said, not without a hint of jealousy.
“The boy has found his footing,” Somey said in agreement.
“How has something that was a pen just a moment ago become a balm now, Mangaley?”
Mangaley was astonished. Truly – how did a pen wriggle away from its meaning and within moments become a balm? To the aged students the letters on the board – which, until a moment ago were but dumb, lifeless beasts devoid of meaning – now seemed speak and shift, gain vitality and meaning. Momentarily, a list was created of the novel and unfamiliar. By moving up, down and sideways the three letters Ka, La and Ma, and by exchanging one letter for another, words like Kalama, Malama, Makala, Mala, Malamala, Lamak-lamak, Kal, Kalkal; words for a pen, a balm, a brazier, dung, muslin, a loping gait, a machine, the onomatopoeic sound of running water. To the aged students it was as if a strange light had entered their eyes and, as if through sorcery, the light flickered there. There are scrawls on the board. Study them intently and the scrawls begin to move and speak. The scrawls say one thing now and in a few moments say something else. Incredible miracle!
“Do you see anything, Mangaley?”
“How can I say anything, sir?” Mangaley struggled in his attempt to string together his sensations of bewilderment and joy. And, with some effort, he said, “Sir, these eyes were blind until now. But I sense in them a dim light, like that coming from a sooty lantern.”
“And you, Kaudey?”
“I’m stunned by your magic tricks, sir.”
Thus ended the game of letters. It was now the stranger’s turn. Sheshkant drew the conversation towards the corner and said, “Our new guest who arrived today would like to tell you a few things.”
“Would be good if we could be acquainted first,” Katuwal said with curiosity, looking at the reedy stranger and Kapil.
“He is a raconteur,” Sheshkant offered.
“What sort of a name is that?”
“It is not a name, Mangaley. A raconteur spins tales.”
“If we could know his name, home, trade and creed...” Somey, who had kept silent for some time, showed an interest in learning everything about the storyteller.
“I am a wayfarer. My trade is to collect and relate life’s tales.” The storyteller revealed his strange identity with a grave and pensive attitude.
“And your caste?”
“I am a Nepali.”
“Nepali of the leather-working caste?”
“No – I have no caste. I am a Nepali from Nepal.”
The students in the Adult Literacy Class found the storyteller’s introduction very strange. This beanpole hides his true name, the villagers thought. When asked about his native home the tall man answered, “I don’t have a home. Wherever I am given refuge, there is my home. Wherever I am loved, there are my kin.”
This was indeed a strange man!
“Now our storyteller will relate a story to you. Tell us – what sort of a story do you want to hear?”
What sort of a story, really? Students in the shed hesitated. The stories familiar to them spoke of demons and wizards, witches and ghosts, spirits and warlock. And occasionally there were stories of love and lust, the matters of the heart. And the scriptural tales from Satya Narayan.
“What sorts of tales do you know,” it was again Katuwal who spoke.
“Our friend knows all sorts of stories. He even knows the creation story.”
“Alright, sir – let us hear the creation story at this opportunity.”
The storyteller stared into the thick darkness outside the door and seemed momentarily lost in thoughts. Then, scanning the faces of the new students, he said in a soft voice, “Let us ponder this – how might have man been created?”
“May I say something here?” How could Katuwal ever resist seizing any opportunity?
With a nod and a gesture of his eyes the storyteller signaled, “Yes, do.”
Katuwal puffed up like a know-it-all and began, “The scriptures say this, sir. Man was created by the four-faced Lord Brahma. From his mouth he created the Brahmins, from his arms he created the Chhetriyas, from his thighs he created the Vaishyas, and from the soles of his feet he created the Shudras. They say he mixed cow dung and clay and ashes and what not and created man. Brahmins, created from his mouth, became the purest. Chhetriyas, created from the arms, became a little less pure. Vaishyas, created from the thighs, came even lower. And we the people of the lowest castes were created from the soles of the Lord Brahma. They say it is because we come from the soles of feet that step on shit that people of upper castes call us turds, sir.”
A razor-like tongue, a clear voice, speech fluent as a stream rushing downhill, and a tireless zeal – Katuwal recounted the creation story superbly. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t already heard the creation story many times before. But when Katuwal so skillfully told the same story, the mature students in the Adult Literacy Class became spellbound. Yes, Katuwal is immensely clever. That is why he is in the good graces of the higher castes in the village and enjoys their favor.
“Sir, is your story of a similar sort?” Somey opened his mouth wide to yawn and show toothless gums and asked without enthusiasm.
“My story is a bit different, Somey.”
“The creation story can’t differ from the one I just told, sir,” Katuwal insisted eagerly. “Can there be two versions of something written by the gods into the scriptures?”
The men in the class thought – Katuwal has caught tight the beanpole’s tongue in a vice of words. The beanpole is in trouble, for sure!
“We just now discussed the issue of promissory notes, didn’t we?” the storyteller laid the four cornerstones for building the plot of his story. “And you faced some troubles regarding the issue of promissory notes, didn’t you?”
A few men clamoured, each adding to the voice of another, “Yes, sir, great many troubles.” Here, too, Katuwal’s voice clambered above the other voices, galloping roughshod over everyone else.
“Do you remember who wrote the promissory note in the story about it?”
Answers jostled to come to the fore.
“Well-off and clever ones.”
“Village chief and upper castes.”
“Village conmen and scoundrels.”
“Backstabbers.”
“Ever in your life, have notes written by such people been true and without deceit?”
“What are you saying!” Katuwal drew out the phrase. “Never! Not once!”
“Tell me, then – if those very men write the creation story, for whose profit will they write it?” Now the storyteller attempted to strongly grasp at the heart of the matter. “For poor folks like you and I, or for cunning liars themselves?”
“They will write for their own profit, sir. If they would ever write with our benefit in mind...” said Mangal, who had been listening intently.
“Just like the promissory note earlier?”
“Yes, sir. Exactly like that.”
“The creation story must be similar, don’t you think?” the storyteller laid his snare; the people in the classroom became ensnared. But Katuwal wasn’t going to be moved by a hair’s breadth from his stubborn beliefs. On the one hand is the creation story written by the gods, and on the other hand a promissory note! On the one hand is Gopilal the moneylender, and on the other hand Kaudey the tailor! Tsk! What a thing to say! Katuwal nearly jumped up and screamed as he muttered these thoughts.
“Didn’t the gods write the creation story?” Katuwal asked, vigorously sharpening each word.
“Aren’t the money lenders and village chiefs gods too?” The storyteller firmly drew the strands of his logic. “Do we not fall prostrate before them as we do before the gods? We sing their praises like we sing hymns, don’t we? Don’t we hold them high in our esteem and worship them as gods? We think of them as the most pure and mark our foreheads with the dirt beneath their feet, don’t we?”
“This much is true, sir.”
“And that is all I understand,” the storyteller, too, sharpened each of his words. “Today’s gods write false promissory notes, just as the gods of the past wrote a false creation story. Isn’t it so.” The storyteller’s words fell like heavy hammers upon the minds of the listeners. Now, isn’t this beanpole a shrewd one! He calls the creation story a forged promissory note! And, the four-faced creator Brahma he calls a trickster and a forger! A quick anger stirred through the men in the classroom. How dare he talk as if he knows more than the four-faced Brahma!
“We don’t quite understand you, sir,” Katuwal said, puckering his mouth, as if ready to attack.
“And you are right, Katuwal,” the storyteller said quietly and politely. “For thousands of years our heads have been stuffed with this story. The frauds of today stuff the same nonsense into our heads. Their fathers had stuffed the same falsehood into the heads of our fathers. And, similarly, their fathers’ fathers had filled the heads of our fathers’ fathers with the same lies. For generations upon generations, their kind has been battering and stomping on and dragging through the mud the minds of our kind and rendered us dumb, as senseless as a corpse. And we run blindly after them, accepting their every command, don’t we? Tell me – haven’t we been doing that?”
The mature students in the Adult Literacy Class at Simring, a village of the tailor-caste, found themselves mired in hesitation. If they agree, the creator Brahma joins ranks with frauds like Gopilal. If they disagree, the clever beanpole leaves them no space to talk back. The mature students searched each other’s faces; helpless pairs of eyes met other helpless pairs of eyes. The two bearded men sat under the board, scratching their beards, observing the classroom.
“We still don’t understand what you are saying, sir,” Katuwal scratched his temple and showed his dissatisfaction in a bewildered voice.
“Sir – I have seen fifty winters, and worn through many, many a shirt. But here you speak of things nobody had ever spoken of before this. It feels as if you have struck an axe-blow upon all of my beliefs. I feel lost, like a crow in a fog.”
“Mangaley – did you have anything to add?”
“I am also struggling to understand, sir”
“And Kaudey?”
“Let me not pretend to be clever and talk about this, sir.”
“Is the issue settled?” The storyteller interrogated each face, moving slowly through the classroom.
Drat! This beanpole, who volunteered to recount the creation story, now asks if his story is finished even before he begins to tell it! What kind of a man does that? What is he trying to do? Is he trying to show everybody how dull they are, so that only he seems sharp? He has no name, no home or caste to speak of – but just listen to him! What is he getting at? The dalit men were stupefied. Neither a branch to hang from, nor the ground beneath to stand on. The beanpole seemed intent on hanging them like gourds suspended over a cliff!
And, even as he hesitated between speech and silence, these words escaped Mangaley’s lips: “You did promise us the creation story.”
“Yes, I did.”
“If we could hear it, just the once...”
The storyteller glanced at his watch and turned towards the two bearded tutors, who signaled to him to continue. The storyteller thought about where he should begin. And, clearing his throat with a cough, he started: “I have listened to the creation story with which you are familiar. Should I now tell you the creation story that I know?”
“Tell us, sir,” said a chorus of curious voices.
The storyteller continued, “As far as I know, the creation story you told me is a forgery, just like the promissory notes nowadays. It is a fraudulent tale told by defrauding forefathers of the frauds around today, created to serve their line.”
“Sir,” Katuwal protested with irritation, “How can we call fraudulent a story created by God himself?”
“If you don’t mind, Katuwal, may I ask you a little question?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From where did Brahma create you?”
“The soles of his feet.”
“You are a turd, created from the soles of feet that tread upon shit, aren’t you?”
“That is what the upper caste folks tell us, sir.”
“And, according to your scriptures, the story of creation by the four-faced Brahma is unassailable, isn’t it? Undeniable and unchangeable?”
“Yes, sir. That is what they have told us.”
“And therefore you’ll forever remain a turd? Never changeable, incapable of changing. Isn’t that so?”
“The upper castes say just that, sir.”
“And haven’t you have followed them, agreeing with everything they have said?”
Here, Katuwal found himself in a bit of a fix. And so he bowed his head and scratched his forelock.
“You are the dirt beneath the feet, and you are a turd. You were born a turd, with the purpose of dying a turd. An immutable piece of turd, aren’t you?” The storyteller paused. When Katuwal bowed his head further, he continued speaking, “Why do you keep up your worthless complaints about how the upper caste folks give you one kind or another kind of trouble, or how they keep you in serfdom, how they cheat you and how they walk all over you? A piece of turd belongs on the ground, does it not? If feet that walk on the ground don’t step on pieces of turds littered over the ground, what else is the fate of turds? To be picked from the ground and smeared on the head as blessing? According to the scriptures you are a piece of turd in an alley. Why shouldn’t those who claim to be from the upper castes step all over you?”
The confounded and slack-jawed men in the class stared at Katuwal, whose head, bending ever to the ground, found his knees for support.
“That is why, brother Katuwal,” the storyteller added in a soft voice, “I say that the creation story you told me is a forgery no different from the forged promissory notes written by your moneylenders. That deceitful document puts us on par with turds, piles of dung. If we really want to rise from the status of dung to the ranks of men we must seek out the true story of creation. What are your thoughts on this, Katuwal?”
Katuwal hid his face between his knees and said in a dull voice, “Let it be, sir! I have nothing to say to this.”
“If that is so, sir,” Mangaley’s curiosity tumbled forth, “let us hear the true account of creation!”
“It might astonish you to hear it,” the storyteller walked through the class in a slow and deliberate pace, “but man is descended from the monkey.”
Man came from the monkey! Oh, my lord! Man was created from the monkey? The listeners turned to each other in amazement. Suddenly, they felt a surge of discomfort; chill shivers ran down their backs. The hair stood on ends all over their bodies. On the surface of their minds they saw monkeys approach them, scratching their armpits, picking and eating lice.
“Of course!” said the storyteller, pacing about the room. “It is a tale from millions of years ago. A tribe of monkeys encountered insuperable distress in an impenetrable forest. They were surrounded on all sides by devilish beasts and other predators with sharp claws and fangs, poisonous tongues and enormous horns. The lives of the monkeys were in grave peril. They had two options before them: get killed, or adapt to a new idea and save their lives. After all, who doesn’t love life?”
“Everybody does, sir! A lot!” Katuwal agreed excitedly.
“Therefore, to save their skins, the tribe of monkeys invented a new course of action.”
“What new idea did the worthless monkey invent?”
“Brother Somey, the monkeys picked stones with their fore-paws and pelted them at the enemy. Found sticks to hurl. When it pelted stones and hurled sticks, it was forced to stand on its hind-legs and raise its head high. As they practiced picking and pelting stones and hur-ling sticks, their fingers became more flexible, more energetic. As they stood on their hind-legs frequently, the spine became straighter. As they confronted and fought off their enemies, and as they foraged for food, they were forced to learn to use their various limbs and appendages in new manners. Gradually their bodies morphed and took new forms. Eventually, over thousands of years, that tribe of monkeys stood upright on hind-legs and walked, head raised and the spine erect. It was no longer sufficient to employ the fore-paws as hands when confronting enemies. And so, as they encountered new needs, the minds of the monkeys also sharpened, became keener. Thus, the hands helped make the mind keener, and the mind that had become sharpened taught truer aim to the hand. Over time, the monkey became the wild-man ape of the jungles. An ape is half human and half monkey. Over thousands of years the same apes transformed and improved into full humans.”
A stunned quiet hung over the men in the shed. It was so quiet that their breathing sounded like bellows being worked.
“Calamities!” Katuwal opened wide his mouth in amazement. “The boys tried very hard, didn’t they?”
“Yes, Katuwal, they tried very hard.”
“What happened after that, sir?”
“After that, Somey, in the process of changing, the monkey-man learned to fashion weapons out of bones, and learned to tame wild animals like dogs and horses and put them to work. Gradually, the ape-man who lived in caves learned to build and live in huts and till the land. The ape-man found fire, which must have come either from an exploding volcano or from dry trees rubbing together in a storm. Fire became a reliable and favoured friend to man. Food tastes superior when cooked over a fire. Good to taste, and easy to digest. And – whenever the enemy saw fire it ran away cowering. Of course, it gives warmth in the cold. Man learned to wear the barks of trees, the pelts of beasts. And gradually he shed the fur on his body. After thousands of years man discovered metals like copper and bronze. He had fire – now he could smelt ores and forge metals in different shapes to make weapons and tools. With the beasts he had tamed and the tools he had forged, man began a new method of tilling and sowing the land. When there wasn’t much work to accomplish utterances and gestures had been enough to tell and listen. But, as the business of work increased utterances and gestures became insufficient. And so man took another epoch of thousands of years to learn the language of words. Thus, through the relation forged between the hand and the mind the monkey of the wilderness became the man of the household. That is why I said – Man is created from the monkey.”
“How do you find this story?” The storyteller asked with a faint smile playing on his face. The mature students flitted their dull, dumb eyes to other pairs of dumbfounded eyes. They were still feeling discomfort and disgust. Goosebumps that had grown on their bodies stood unabated. Some even felt nauseous. Are we – Men – created from monkeys? We are descendents of the monkeys? Oh God!
“Sir – you bring brimstones here today!” Mangaley hesitatingly opened his mouth. “I am stumped by this tale you have raised today, and which nobody has ever heard before.”
“Sir,” Katuwal raised his bowed head and asked with the intention of locking horns, “You spoke as if you saw it with your own eyes. Who told you that this is exactly how it happened all those years ago?”
The storyteller realized that Katuwal had found the crux of the matter. He began thoughtfully unfurling the issue, “Brother Katuwal – hundreds of learned people have spent hundreds of years to search and study these matters to come to this conclusion.”
“And that too I don’t grasp, sir. A man who lives the longest perhaps lives for eighty or a hundred years. As you told us – this story is hundreds of thousands of years old. How do men from our time see events from so long ago?”
“You ask the right question, Katuwal.” The storyteller tried to politely explain what he knew. “Of course, people from so long ago couldn’t have lived to our time. And, of course, people from our age can’t see into the past. But, the thing is, Katuwal, in the new scriptures there are schemes for determining matters of this nature.”
“What is that scheme?” Kaudey, who has been sitting still as an owl in a corner, asked.
“When animals walking the world die their bones and skeletons remain on earth. Sometimes there are earthquakes, and sometimes there are landslides. Sometimes glowing flames of lava erupt from inside the earth and are called volcanoes. When that happens, there are innumerable disturbances on earth. Skeletons and bones on the surface get buried. Some of them become like rocks, remain exactly the same and at exactly the same place. Learned people search for them, dig them out, and minutely examine them. Then they make guesses – they talk among each other and ask if something really happened one way or another, and then they determine what must have really happened. Katuwal, this is not the sort of silly talk that goes with “Brahma did this, Brahma did that.” This requires searching for evidence, examining the evidence, showing it to others, convincing them of the truth and then finally settling the matter. This, Katuwal, is the irrefutable.”
“All of this seems like a dream to me, sir,” Somey, who had remained quiet so long, showed his perplexity. “If this tale were true, why don’t the monkeys of today turn into men? I am stuck on that point, sir.”
“Like I said, Somey – the kind of monkey that turned into man was different from the kind of monkey we see today. This is a long time ago. That one tribe of monkey found itself in grave peril. It had to either confront the perils and overcome them or die and disappear. It acted out of a love for life. I told you what it did, Somey. This is the second thing. The third thing is that the monkeys of today are not in the peril of dying and being destroyed. And so these worthless idiots haven’t had to utilize their hands or employ their minds. They raid people’s crops in gangs, eat what they can and raze what they won’t eat – they have enough to get by. Why would they change then, these miscreants?”
“This is something I can agree with,” Katuwal scratched his ears in agreement.
“When I listen and ponder it,” Somey started with hesitation, “I feel as if this will drive us to madness. What I have listened to and believed in all of my life is one thing. But I am now hearing this in my dying hours.”
“Age is no barrier to hearing and learning about new things, Somey.”
“This is beyond my abilities,” Somey sighed and let his limbs go slack. “Let the younger boys put their strength to it. It is beyond me. If I had only heard these stories when I still had time...”
“I agree with Younger Uncle,” Katuwal, who felt the millstone of uncertainty burden his head, buckled under and fell to his knees.
“You are a coward!” The arrogant Somey growled at Katuwal, who thought Somey was a pilferer. “As long as you have days, you have to put your strength to these matters.”
“I have already said I can’t do it, Younger Uncle.”
The bearded Kapil looked at his watch. It was already eleven o’clock. After signaling something to the storyteller he turned to the men in the classroom, “Brothers! Should we end our talks for today?”
When everybody stood to get on their way, Katuwal raised his voice to ask, “Sir, the other creation story had come from the four-faced god Brahma. What is the name of the Brahma behind this creation story?”
“The name of the man who found the roots of the true creation story of humankind is Charles Darwin. He was a learned man from England, which is a nation of white people.”
“Everybody! Listen carefully!” Katuwal ordered his peers in the manner of the village crier that he was. Then he slapped his own head and asked again, “What was the name again, sir?”
“Charles Darwin.”
“Yes. Charles Darlin.” Katuwal repeated the name a few times, trying to commit it to memory, “Charles Darlin, Charles Darlin, Charles Darlin, Charles...”
And so ended the first day of classes in the shed in Simring. When the mature students of Simring walked home they felt as if they carried on their shoulders the foul forms of monkeys. In their disturbed ears echoed the words of the storyteller: We are created from monkeys. When they dwelled upon the significance of those words it disgusted them, as if a large lemur perched on their shoulders, with its belly splayed over their heads, and with one hand scratching under its armpits while the other shaped itself into a spoon of dead, dry digits trying to dig out the eyes. And the echo of the beanpole’s voice ringing – It’s from the monkey that man is descended!
Damn it! Damn it all!