The Demigod's nemesis
Posted: Thu Jan 24, 2013 2:56 am
It was late. Too late for a seven year old to be up anyways.
The cold winter night was crisp and the stars in the sky bright.
The fire by which I was sitting glowed bright and the smell of wild boar cooking in yogurt, whole red chillies and spices wafted through the air.The beer in the men’s mugs was chilled and the shami-kebabs in their plates so succulent that biting into them was like biting into ripe grapes.
However I wasn’t in the least bit interested in the food. "The gang" had just gotten back from the hunt. The bag for the day was a wild boar, a sambar and a couple of hare. The "gang" was actually a group of friends brought together by their love of the outdoors and the shikar. In addition to the hunters, there were gun bearers, drivers, 'shikaris' or trackers/hunters. I always looked forward to these post hunt bonfire dinners and listen with rapt attention to their tales.
But today I wasn’t even paying attention to the hunt stories about the yardage of the shots taken
and the stalk or the spread of antlers or poundage of the boar.
I knew that an old shikari who had retired many years ago from Grandfathers service had accompanied them today 'for old times’ sake' and it was him who was keeping my mind diverted away from the stories and the food. Currently he was busy caping and butchering the sambar in the backyard and wouldn’t be available for another hour.
He was Deva, the demigod.
Demigod by name.
Demigod in looks
Demigod in strength
Demigod in courage
Demigod by reputation.
We kids had heard so many stories of his superhuman strength and courage that we only uttered his name with utter reverence. I had known him through many stories about him and wanted to see firsthand if he actually was a Deva, a demigod.
Being as patient as a seven year old can be, I whiled away time remembering all the stories I had heard about his strength.
At the age of eight he walked from his village to the castle 20 miles away and fascinated by the 'balls' kept near the cannon carried one of them back with him so he could play with them. When he found that it was actually a cannon balls (weighing 30-40 pounds), scared, if discovered, he would be punished, he ran back 20 miles to return them.
When Grandfather shot a tiger in a valley, he singlehandedly carried it on his shoulders, carried it a few mile climbed two hills all the way to the road there the jeep was parked.
Once, asked to scout for wild boar, he left at dawn on a bicycle and returned by dusk to report an area that held monsters...130 km away! On an old rickety bike on potholed back roads in 1960's India!
He was the first to offer to track a wounded big cat through high grass.
I had watched hard times/street fighter as I had heard the "gang" remark that Charles Bronson had a physique like Deva. (In the sixties Arnie and sly were yet to make their mark). And how when one watched him chop wood, which he could do by the wagonload, one could see the muscles rippling and one could use him to study human anatomy.
Well today I was finally going to see him in person.
"Deva is here, hokum-Sire", announced a servant, "he has finished his
work and wants to know if he may be excused."
Stepped forward a man initially only a shadow in the darkness. As he approached the fire, the shadow started to take a form. 6'2" with a straight back he was bare-chested and his body glistened in the
firelight with the beads of perspiration brought on by butchering the sambar. He still retained a six pack and the still muscular shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist. The aquiline nose, the handsome face; the eyes radiant in the reflected firelight, seemed to be on fire themselves. Only his white hair and weather-beaten skin and the creased face belied his years. But the creases, crow’s feet gave him a regal look and a character that looking at countless portraits of kings and emperors and nobility across the world, I have scarcely encountered. 65 springs he had seen and yet he stood tall and taut. His fair skin bronzed by 65 summer suns was made of gold in the reflected firelight.
Yes Deva was a demigod all right.
As the demigod bowed with folded hands to greet us, even at that young age I was aware of the irony fate had put him on the other side of the campfire.
“You have grown sire”, he said to me his voice a deep baritone. Soon you will be old enough to shoot tigers yourself. You will be a great shikari.
“Will you accompany me Deva?” I asked.
“I’m an old man sire and not as strong as I once was but if that’s what you wish.”
“Deva I hear you aren’t scared of anything, that you can follow wounded man-eaters, you can wrestle wild boars and you aren’t even scared of stepping into the haunted enchanted forests at night”. “Yes sire nothing scares me. Whatever is to be seen in the forests and life, I have seen and faced. Charging tigers, wounded leopards, poisonous cobras, accursed haunted ruins, the banyan tree which houses the 'churail', the Indian banshee.”
“What about the dark Deva, are you scared of the dark? And spiders and lizards?” the 8 year old
in me inquired.
“No sire”, he humoured me with a smile. “Not even the darkness or the spiders.”
“Well he isn’t scared of anything......except one thing...isn’t that right Deva?” Chuckled the gang.
“Oh that, please don’t remind me of that sire”, Said Deva.
Right then, there was a sudden metamorphosis in Deva. His eyes opened wide, mouth went dry, and hands were trembling. Was it the dancing firelight or did he suddenly develop a stoop? Was it just the shadows or did the eyes really lose their fire? The face got more wrinkled and weary. He was a demigod no more; just a scared old man.
The years of reverence shattered in a single moment. Deva, scared!!!
But then a sudden curiosity got hold of me. What can scare a demigod?
A wounded elephant, a charging gaur, the Indian bison? What is it Deva what could possibly scare you?
(End of part 1; to be continued........)
The cold winter night was crisp and the stars in the sky bright.
The fire by which I was sitting glowed bright and the smell of wild boar cooking in yogurt, whole red chillies and spices wafted through the air.The beer in the men’s mugs was chilled and the shami-kebabs in their plates so succulent that biting into them was like biting into ripe grapes.
However I wasn’t in the least bit interested in the food. "The gang" had just gotten back from the hunt. The bag for the day was a wild boar, a sambar and a couple of hare. The "gang" was actually a group of friends brought together by their love of the outdoors and the shikar. In addition to the hunters, there were gun bearers, drivers, 'shikaris' or trackers/hunters. I always looked forward to these post hunt bonfire dinners and listen with rapt attention to their tales.
But today I wasn’t even paying attention to the hunt stories about the yardage of the shots taken
and the stalk or the spread of antlers or poundage of the boar.
I knew that an old shikari who had retired many years ago from Grandfathers service had accompanied them today 'for old times’ sake' and it was him who was keeping my mind diverted away from the stories and the food. Currently he was busy caping and butchering the sambar in the backyard and wouldn’t be available for another hour.
He was Deva, the demigod.
Demigod by name.
Demigod in looks
Demigod in strength
Demigod in courage
Demigod by reputation.
We kids had heard so many stories of his superhuman strength and courage that we only uttered his name with utter reverence. I had known him through many stories about him and wanted to see firsthand if he actually was a Deva, a demigod.
Being as patient as a seven year old can be, I whiled away time remembering all the stories I had heard about his strength.
At the age of eight he walked from his village to the castle 20 miles away and fascinated by the 'balls' kept near the cannon carried one of them back with him so he could play with them. When he found that it was actually a cannon balls (weighing 30-40 pounds), scared, if discovered, he would be punished, he ran back 20 miles to return them.
When Grandfather shot a tiger in a valley, he singlehandedly carried it on his shoulders, carried it a few mile climbed two hills all the way to the road there the jeep was parked.
Once, asked to scout for wild boar, he left at dawn on a bicycle and returned by dusk to report an area that held monsters...130 km away! On an old rickety bike on potholed back roads in 1960's India!
He was the first to offer to track a wounded big cat through high grass.
I had watched hard times/street fighter as I had heard the "gang" remark that Charles Bronson had a physique like Deva. (In the sixties Arnie and sly were yet to make their mark). And how when one watched him chop wood, which he could do by the wagonload, one could see the muscles rippling and one could use him to study human anatomy.
Well today I was finally going to see him in person.
"Deva is here, hokum-Sire", announced a servant, "he has finished his
work and wants to know if he may be excused."
Stepped forward a man initially only a shadow in the darkness. As he approached the fire, the shadow started to take a form. 6'2" with a straight back he was bare-chested and his body glistened in the
firelight with the beads of perspiration brought on by butchering the sambar. He still retained a six pack and the still muscular shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist. The aquiline nose, the handsome face; the eyes radiant in the reflected firelight, seemed to be on fire themselves. Only his white hair and weather-beaten skin and the creased face belied his years. But the creases, crow’s feet gave him a regal look and a character that looking at countless portraits of kings and emperors and nobility across the world, I have scarcely encountered. 65 springs he had seen and yet he stood tall and taut. His fair skin bronzed by 65 summer suns was made of gold in the reflected firelight.
Yes Deva was a demigod all right.
As the demigod bowed with folded hands to greet us, even at that young age I was aware of the irony fate had put him on the other side of the campfire.
“You have grown sire”, he said to me his voice a deep baritone. Soon you will be old enough to shoot tigers yourself. You will be a great shikari.
“Will you accompany me Deva?” I asked.
“I’m an old man sire and not as strong as I once was but if that’s what you wish.”
“Deva I hear you aren’t scared of anything, that you can follow wounded man-eaters, you can wrestle wild boars and you aren’t even scared of stepping into the haunted enchanted forests at night”. “Yes sire nothing scares me. Whatever is to be seen in the forests and life, I have seen and faced. Charging tigers, wounded leopards, poisonous cobras, accursed haunted ruins, the banyan tree which houses the 'churail', the Indian banshee.”
“What about the dark Deva, are you scared of the dark? And spiders and lizards?” the 8 year old
in me inquired.
“No sire”, he humoured me with a smile. “Not even the darkness or the spiders.”
“Well he isn’t scared of anything......except one thing...isn’t that right Deva?” Chuckled the gang.
“Oh that, please don’t remind me of that sire”, Said Deva.
Right then, there was a sudden metamorphosis in Deva. His eyes opened wide, mouth went dry, and hands were trembling. Was it the dancing firelight or did he suddenly develop a stoop? Was it just the shadows or did the eyes really lose their fire? The face got more wrinkled and weary. He was a demigod no more; just a scared old man.
The years of reverence shattered in a single moment. Deva, scared!!!
But then a sudden curiosity got hold of me. What can scare a demigod?
A wounded elephant, a charging gaur, the Indian bison? What is it Deva what could possibly scare you?
(End of part 1; to be continued........)