Day 1, 22.10 Hrs
It started with a pell-mell run to catch the train earlier in the morning. Last mile of Santragachi station is rather difficult to reach in car. We were late. Our train, Rupashi Bangla Express, as is usual in such situations, was standing in the farthest platform. We boarded it by a whisker, breathless and sweating in the December chill.
The train eased out, went past Mourigram, Andul, Sankrail and likewise. Stations in our part of the country have names that seat easy on the tongue and have a touch of rhyme in them too.
By the time we reached Fuleswar, junior brigade was fast asleep.
Puri sabji and Alur Dom is a traditional must at Kharagpur. Never defaulted on that so far, starting from my college days. This time has been no exception. How they get to make the absolutely paper thin, almost translucent puris is a mystery to me. It’s an art, albeit uncelebrated and unrecognized.
We reached Bankura around 10.15 AM. Took a car and started for Mukutmanipur. Crossed the bridge over Darukeswar river, ambled past Pohabagan, Sunukpahari, Indpur, Supur, Hirbandh, Khatra and finally reached the Peerless Resort in Mukutmanipur around mid-day. Long stretches of forest lay along this route. Sal, segun, kendua, mohua, palash, ashok tower above the ground. The villages are few and far off from each other. Urban habits are slowly creeping into the traditional life of these villages, but they are still rustic enough to give a glimpse of rural Bengal.
This area is supposedly troubled by Maoist insurgency. The extreme hardships of life in this dry, arid region, slowly receding forest cover which provided the sustenance to the people, and years and years of political deception has etched deep lines of despair and hurt in this so called Junglemahal. It is not difficult to imagine why some people resort to such desperate measures.
As we stopped at a little tea stall in Khatra, I found myself talking to the tea-stall owner Rajen Malo. A simple man, the fabric of his simple life style has been torn apart with changing times. He recalled with misty eyes the days he went to the forests to gather wood, Sal leaves, Kendua leaves, mahua…a practice old as time itself, which took care of their daily needs and earnings. Now forest is government property. Government is supposed to take care of their needs. But while politicians indulge in politics, people are dying here in malnutrition, thirst and abject poverty. His bent back suddenly straightened as he recounted his encounter with a bear, vying for the intoxicating mohua. Pride was ringing in his voice as he told us how he, a strapping young man then, had beat back the brute with his spear and showed us the scars of the bear’s claws on his legs. We left Rajen da in his reverie. But his somber words cast a long shadow as we quietly made our way towards the luxury of our resort.
Mukutmanipur, named after Mukutmani Devi, a queen of the local ruling family, is famous for being one of the largest earthen dams of the country. Located at the confluence of Kansabati and Kumari rivers, this dam regulates the flow of water in the dry, red-soiled lands of Bankura, Birbhum and Purulia.
Ambikapur, the flourishing kingdom of yore, is located nearby, reduced to ruins nowadays. Mukutmanipur attracts a large number of tourists each year, but there is no visible effort to preserve the rich history and culture of this land. Our own apathy towards our history is appalling. Our occidental counterparts beat us hollow in this aspect.
After lunch and a brief siesta, we walked down to the river bank, found a boat and started on a ride on the deep and rippling waters of Kangsabati. We traveled to the Deer Park located further along the bank, went near the confluence of Kangsabati and Kumari and climbed the Parasnath Hill. From the hill-top we watched the sun slowly sink beyond the rolling hillocks in the horizon. The sky was bathed in red. The water was like molten vermilion, softly lapping at the banks. The riverine islands were like green dots in that pool of red. The deer park had been a disappointment. No deer had appeared in spite of a long wait. The sunset evened out the scores.
As dusk gathered, we started on our journey back. Tonight’s full moon. Halfway down the river, the darkness grew to a pitch black. The only lights visible were weak blinks from the shore, few and far between. But the moon had a different story to tell. The shine of the silvery orb was no longer frail and watery. It shone with brilliance, bold and intense, bathing us in its soft glow. The water had transformed to a moving plate of black and silver. The moonlight created patterns of intricate filigree on the top of the dark ripples.
On our request, the boatman stopped the engine. We gently drifted in the current, soaking up the surroundings. The darkness filled our minds with equal amount of dread as much as the moonshine lifted our souls. The deep, dark waters seemed to carry a strange menace, strong and primal. The evening chill was settling on the bones. The breeze curled up our ears whispering unsaid words of deep foreboding. The silence was becoming stifling.
Suddenly one of us broke out into the song “Aaloker ei jharnadhara-e dhuiye daao” of Tagore. We all joined in. It lifted the shackles of fear and cracked the cocoon of aloofness each of us was holding on to. In that moment, we have truly become a group of fellow travellers.
As the wind sharpened into a chilling draught, we made our way to the banks. Moonlight made it easy for us to pick the way back to the resort, where piping hot tea and pakodas were waiting for us.
It’s been a long day today. As we are waiting for the dinner to be served, I can see that even junior brigade has ran out of steam and are nodding off. It’ll be early to bed tonight.
Day 2, 23.20 Hrs
The silence around us is remarkable. Sitting in my room, I can clearly hear the soft lapping of water, the chirp of a daring cricket, the gentle swish of leaves as the wind murmurs through them. The constant clamor of our urban life is only a distant and unwelcome memory now.
It was still dark in the morning, when Ashok, a local fellow, had arrived with sweet sap 
of date plants in small earthen pitchers. These pitchers are tied on top of the trees in the evening and notches are marked on the trunk. The sweet sap trickles into the pitchers throughout the night, which are collected in the early morning hours, before the sun rises. The chilled, softly sweet juice tasted like ambrosia. In one fleeting moment, I was back to my teens, when we used to steal and drink this heavenly elixir from a nearby garden, braving snakes and beatings from the owner. I still carry the scar of a slipped scythe, which we used to cut down the pitchers.
These simple joys of life are lost on us today. We are poorer off now than we ever used to be. Our children will never know the pleasure of climbing trees and popping in ripe fruit directly from the laden boughs. They will not know the feel of crunchy wetness of dew drenched grass under their naked feet. They will not know the frenzy of playing football in a muddy, waterlogged field and the fun of jumping into the pond for a bath at the end of the game. They will not look at the wooden merry-go-rounds at the fairs with awe and longing. They will not drool over pink candy floss.
Brick by brick we have arrayed the virtual world of make believe around them, shutting out reality, boxing them in a cocoon. It’s our responsibility to bring them out of that cocoon, under the open sky, into the cradle of life, real and living.
As the day grew older, we started for Ambikanagar in a rented cab.
Ambikanagar lies to the right when one travels from Mukutmanipur towards Ranibandh and the forest of Jhili Mili. The narrow path winded through the villages, local markets and temples, till we reached the ruins of Ambikanagar. This area, centered around Supur and Ambikanagar, also called Dhalbhum in the past, used to be the stronghold of the ‘Deb’ family. According to tradition, the original Raja of Dhalbhum was Chintamoni Dhoba, a person of washerman caste. The pai or grain measure used in these parganas was for a long time called Chintaman pai. Legend goes on to say that Dhalbhum was wrested from him by Jagannath Deb of Dholpur in Rajputana. After 32 generations, Supur Raj, as it was locally called, was divided in consequence of a disputed succession. One of the successors continued at Supur and the other shifted to Ambikanagar. Both the families were related to the families of Bishnupur, Raipur, Shyamsundarpur and others. They ruled for about 700 years. A branch of the same family ruled in Chikligarh or Jamboni. Ambikanagar was taken over by the British, when they found out that Raja Raicharan Dhabal Deb, the last king of this dynasty, was encouraging revolutionary activities.
The ruins lie intertwined with a village. The hallmark of the period architecture, the small brick constructions can be seen all around, albeit in ruins. The Raas Mandir to the right of the main entrance is also in ruins, but the Radha Govinda temple to its left has survived the test of time. Not so the palace. Bricks lie scattered where a grand entrance (Singhadwar) once stood. The packed-earth courtyard inside is partly overgrown. There is no way to access the actual ruins.
“There could be snakes,” warns Prafulla Ghosh. “Nobody goes there now. I saw the last raja when I was 10 years old. My father was an employee in the palace,” adds the withered 80-year-old, who takes pride in narrating the history of the Dhabal Debs, the erstwhile rajas. “He was our revolutionary king,” Ghosh says, 
pointing to a memorial for Raja Raicharan Dhabal Deb, who passed away in 1926. “A tunnel used to run from under the palace to the forests of Jangalmahal, where revolutionaries like Kshudiram Bose and Prafulla Chaki used to practice the use of firearms and improvised bombs. The raja provided them necessary support. The tunnel was filled up after the British caught on with their activities and arrested him,” Ghosh says, leading us to a small room that could pass as the local club house. Inside the room, we are joined by Gaurishankar Narayan Deo, the son of Raicharan’s grandaughter. Deo has done his best to do whatever he could to preserve and renovate the ruins to keep his illustrious ancestor’s memory alive, but is fighting a losing battle. “No government agency has come forward to provide assistance. A few tourists come here every year. Some of them donate towards the preservation effort. Otherwise, we have to make do with whatever we receive by releasing a souvenir during the annual Biplabi Raicharan Mela,” he says.
We started back with a heavy heart. Here lies our glorious past, our heritage, all in ruins. This is the history of our land we could be proud about. We have chosen to ignore it instead. We have erased the history of armed revolution from our books. The bravery and patriotism of these desperadoes was the first wave of resistance that shook up the British bastions to the core. Their heroics broke the awe with which Indians looked towards the British.
We returned around noon-time. The river bank by the side of our resort is a wide stretch of grass. Junior brigade was overjoyed having such a vast area to run about. And play they did. Their playful shouting could be heard late into the evening.
Late evening there was a brief but thoroughly enjoyable performance by a group of men and women of the local Santhal and Munda tribes. Their music has an intoxicating rhythm. The madal, dhamsa and Kendra combine together in forming wonderful beats. The local festivals, Tusu, Bhadu, Sahrai and Badna are symbolized by much music and dance. Their performance makes the rhythm pulse through our hearts. Almost subconsciously we had joined them in their dance. Language of music is universal.
Tomorrow early morn we will be leaving this place.
The old ruins of Ambikanagar, its old and wizened keeper Prafulla Ghosh, the deep rippling waters of Kangsabati, the unimaginably poor Rajen Malo….they all will be staying back, slowly growing older… time will draw it’s curtain inexorably…….
The life of ancient days and that of new, will continue to merge in a new confluence, which will shape everything temporal in unique contours and colours.
The author visited Mukutmanipur during Dec 2012.
