Translated from Bengali by Sohana Manzoor
Far away from the densely populated civilised world, the nomadic tribes of snake charmers make their temporary homes sometimes right beneath the deep blue mountains, sometimes among deserted and impassable forests, and sometimes by the foamy mountain brooks or in vast stretches of barren land.
He was the headman of one such band of snake charmers. His name was Jahar. He was a god among his people. His men were terrified of him, and yet they also worshipped him. Only one man in his tribe was jealous of Jahar’s hold over his people and scorned him in secret. Yet, he did not dare to question his authority in public. This man was called Bishun. He also had a few disciples. His ardent wish was the demise of Jahar. He plotted to destroy the man and become the leader of the clan himself.
Then came the day of naga-panchami.[1]
Jahar had gone to the foot of the hill to look for poisonous snakes. On his snake charmer’s flute, he played an enchanting tune that would arouse one’s entire being. The tune attracted a dangerously poisonous black cobra which came out of the woods with a swaying hood. Jahar’s eyes burned with excitement. Suddenly, he threw away his flute and placed his palms in front of the raised hood of the snake. One snap and Jahar’s body turned blue because of the venom. His clansmen were stupefied with fear and stood surrounding him. Jahar was unperturbed. He began to chant some spells in a composed manner and soon he was cured of the venom. The astounded crowd cheered their hero. Only Bishun moved away with a darkened countenance.
This is how Jahar had taken on snakebites ninety-nine times and also cured himself. Now he was preparing himself for the hundredth time. If he succeeded in taking out the venom for this last time, he would be completing a difficult penance. Being successful in serpent-cult was the ultimate aim in Jahar’s life. To complete this, he had been practicing celibacy with utmost sincerity.
While Jahar’s disciples and followers awaited the great day ardently, one night something unprecedented happened. Did he ever pause to think that anything like that could happen?
Jahar had roamed around the world like a gypsy. Distancing himself from women he came to think that women were only hindrances to attain his target. He even started to be disdainful towards women in general.
Then one day, he saw a plantain raft carrying the corpse of a beautiful girl. According to tradition, people bitten by snake were not buried, but were placed on such rafts and set afloat in rivers. Jahar could only do what he was taught to do as a snake charmer—to revive the girl.
Now he was in deep trouble. The young woman had forgotten her past because of the strong snake poison. She could recall nothing about her family or friends. She just kept on staring at him piteously. He could not just leave her behind. His once tremendous hatred turned into pity and compassion. He provided a home for her. What could one call this except irony of fate? But his long harboured disdain for women made him dress the girl as a boy. He made her drink a strong potion that would control her womanly nature.
Jahar named her Chandan (a boy’s name) and joined a different tribe of snake charmers. The old leader of the new tribe was so charmed by Jahar that before his death he named Jahar his successor. So, Jahar became the undisputed leader of the half-civilised nomadic tribe.
None of this new tribe, however, knew that Chandan was not a boy. Jhumro, a favourite disciple of Jahar, was her only good friend. Jhumro cared a lot for Chandan.
At this time, the celibate Jahar, who had passed the test of ninety-nine snakebites successfully, suddenly realised that he was in danger of falling from his highest point of honour.
That night when he was preparing to go to sleep, Chandan’s unparalleled beauty affected him like an arrow and turned him mad for a moment. It is with utmost self-control that he was able to restrain himself. He ran to the idol of the goddess Mansa and sat at her feet repenting through the night for his momentary delusion. He prayed and cried as atonement.
But the desire that was aroused, could not be extinguished so easily. Then on that very day, it was heard that the king’s men of the country had started tormenting the snake charmers because they blamed the nomadic tribe for the increasing number of abductions of children lately.
Jahar immediately gathered his band and traveled a long way and camped in a wild forest frequented by ferocious animals. They ignited fire to keep the wild beasts away and started to make merry. Jahar, Jhumro, Chandan, Bishun, Bishun’s son, Tetule, the magician with blue glasses, the fortune-teller, the old bell-keeper—all were enjoying the amusements played in the moonlight-drenched night.
A fight between Jhumro and Tetule started over a trivial matter. In the beginning, they just yelled at each other, but gradually it developed into fist-fighting. Chandan stood apart, however, at one point, unable to bear Jhumro’s predicament, she jumped between the two men. In the ensuing scuffle, she lost her breastplate, and the people suddenly realized that Chandan was a beautiful woman in disguise.
At this point, another beauty rushed into the scene. Her name was Mowtushi. She took off the scarf she was wearing and covered Chandan with it. All this while, she was secretly in love with Chandan with the abandonment of a youthful love. Realising that Chandan was a woman just like her, all her pent-up love turned into a sisterly affection. Meanwhile, Jahar appeared and dragged the embarrassed Chandan to his tent. The members of his tribe were astonished to say the least. Nobody thought in their wildest dream that an austere celibate like Jahar could keep such a disguised beauty with him.
The only person who did not seem surprised was the old bell-keeper. He was a strange man who drank heavily and told fortunes through clay marks on the ground. Yet he never revealed the complete truth. He shook his head and broke into a shrill laughter.
In the meantime, Jahar had cornered Chandan in his tent and was trying to draw her in his embrace saying, “Chandan, Chandan, you are only mine.” His self- restraint of all these years was taken over by an overwhelming desire that made him blind.
Chandan tried in vain to move away from him. Finally, she reminded him of his vow and the goal of his life—to be successful in his serpent-cult. The words hit their mark and Jahar came to his senses. What was he doing? His gaze fell upon the effigy of the goddess Mansa, and he rushed out of the tent in pain. He would have to do it that very night. He would have to take the hundredth bite from a venomous snake and complete his vow.
Finally, he found such a snake and was about to start the ritual when Bishun came with the news that Jhumro had run off with Chandan. Mowtushi had helped them in this venture.
Jahar could not complete his vow. All the preparations he had taken for so many years were absolved by this one piece of news. His rage made him mad, and he rushed off to find the guilty pair. Nobody, however, could tell him about their whereabouts; he felt his entire body was set on fire.
Returning to his tent, Jahar opened the basket of the venomous black cobra and went to the temple of Shiva. He used sacred texts as enchantment and set the snake after Jhumro.
By that time, the deliriously happy Chandan and Jhumro had journeyed out towards the unknown. They dreamt of a nest of happiness in some far-off land where they would live happily ever after.
The venomous black cobra appeared right at that moment, bit Jhumro, and disappeared. Immediately, the deadly poison caused Jhumro to fall on the ground.
Chandan stood there thunderstruck. She felt helpless and hopeless. The only way to save Jhumro was to approach Jahar. But how could she possibly do that? Blinded by tears Chandan traced back her steps to the tent she had deserted earlier.
Jahar sat like a lifeless statue. A tearful Chandan approached him and said in a trembling voice that she loved Jhumro more than her life. If Jahar could save him, she was even willing to sell her soul to him. Jahar did not utter one word, but followed Chandan in a trance till they came to Jhumro’s body that had turned blue.
Jhumro was saved. Chandan happiness knew no bound. But she did not have time. She had sold herself to Jahar to save Jhumro. She belonged to Jahar now and hence she said to Jhumro in a shaky voice, “Go away, Jhumro. Go far away. I am not yours anymore.”
How could she chase away the man she loved most? Tears fell from eyes ceaselessly, her heart hurt too.
Jahar was watching the heartbreaking scene standing not far away. He held the black cobra that had returned to retrieve poison from Jhumro’’s body. He looked at Chandan once and then again at Jhumro. He seemed immersed in deep thought.
Then he took the snakebite on his own chest willingly. Jhumro cried, “What did the Master do?” Both Jhumro and Chandan ran toward Jahar who replied angrily, “Take her away from here, Jhumro. I will consume the poison now. This is my last snake, and I must cast the spell, but it won’t work before womenfolk. Take her away from this forest, country even. Go far away to some other land.”
Chandan and Jhumro left accordingly. The master saw that his disciples were gone, but he did not chant his spell. He smiled to himself and muttered, “Those spells are not mine to utter. I will call on Shiva, Shiva, Shambhu, Shambhu…”
The poison of the black cobra was turning his body blue and the light of his eyes were dimmed. Yet, his face caught on the ray of some other world that illuminated his visage with joy. It seemed that his suffering soul had finally found peace.
He had been successful in this final battle of the serpent-cult.
[1] Naga-panchami is a day that might fall either in the Bengali month of Aashar or Shravan when serpents are worshipped.
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Kazi Nazrul Islam (1899-1976) was born in united Bengal, long before the Partition. Known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
Sohana Manzoor is an Associate Professor at the Department of English and Humanities at ULAB, a short story writer, a translator, an essayist and an artist.
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