Kishkindhya – by Dipankar Choudhuri

(Continued from Part I)

The practise of human sacrifice while making big constructions like bridges or dams in earlier days lingered in my mind. Even though I remained calm and silent, my heart-beat raced.

Who is the kid who is missing ? Is he someone from the Dam Project colony ? I also could not discount an image that kept on appearing at the back of my mind – a short boy, very fair-complexioned, with shaven head, his ceremonial thread across his torso coming down to his knees, popping out from the bottom of his shirt – whom I had seen during our train journey.

Biju-da suddenly paused his narrative. Then he quoted Mr. Bali saying : ‘I had omitted something which I should have told you earlier. You must have read the Ramayana story which has the mention of the name Kiskindhya ?’
To this I nodded consent, ferreting out my knowledge that initially, Mahavir Bali was Kishkindhya king and Sugreev was his brother. During a wrestling fight between the two, Lord Rama unfairly killed Bali by shooting an arrow from behind. Then Sugreev became the king.

Mr. Bali quipped, No. I am referring to something else. Have you ever heard the name of Nicolo Conti ?
I swayed my head in negation.

Mr. Bali continued – “Nicolo De Conti. An Italian traveller of 15th century. He had travelled to Middle East, India, China and Indonesia. He was in the genre of Marco Polo and Ibn Batuta. When he had arrived in India, Columbus was still to discover America. In Bengal, Sri Chaitanya Dev will appear after 50 years”. He set he timeline in a perspective. He further added – “And he had married a local girl from Vijaynagar. With her, he had a son. From then on, wherever he travelled, to Bengal, to Malay, to China or to Java, he had travelled with his wife and son. In his travelogues, Conti praised glowingly of Vijaynagar empire.”

Biju-da understood that Nicolo Conti is the reason why Mr. Bali had stayed back at Hospet even after his retirement. He has a passionate interest on the Italian. Biju-da muttered that to Mr. Bali.

Mr. Bali became introspective in response. He brushed aside to call his efforts as research. He added : “I am only a reader. I am much more in reading stones and caves and archeological ruins than to read books. Especially, I am extremely keen to trace out a revolutionary Italian map.”

In the crowd of the story telling audience, one well-read listener exclaimed – Fra Mauro map ?

“Yes.” Biju-da went back to Mr. Bali’s voice. It is a revolutionary map of the world made around 1450. It was made by a Venetian cartographer Fra Mauro who was a priest. It is considered as the greatest memorial of mediaeval cartography.
Fra Mauro had never stepped out of Venice in his life. But when Nicolo Conti returned to Italy at the end of his world travel, he had shared his travelogue, his notes and charts and his story with Fra Mauro. With these inputs, Fra Mauro had drawn his own map of the world. You see, it was 40 years before Vasco Da Gama’s had his voyage to India
This map is now my obsession.”

Mr. Bali paused a little, probably to breathe in the greatness of Fra Mauro’s extraordinary talent. Then with a tone of introspection as if he was talking to himself, he muttered – “But an original sketch was with Conti and…..”

This pause led to an unbearable suspense to me – And what ?

– “It’s one root sketch of that map that Conti had left behind at Vijaynagar before he returned to Italy. And finding that map is my present mission.”

I got goose bumps in the thought of seeing a map which is from pre- Vasco Da Gama era..

At Hospete Dam Project colony, the atmosphere became very restless and unclear. It was hard to believe that a person like Mr. Bali with such a passion for history will be entangled in a case of child-lifting. But no one was able to tell anything clear about it. The entire colony was agog in hushed rumours of all sorts.

Biju-da continued with us – “Instead of adding fuel to the many rumours, I quietly set out in a ramshackle bicycle to find out by myself the present whereabouts of Mr. Bali. I reached at a small dwelling cluster outside the dam colony and people showed me his place. It ws a small 2 storey house whose doors and windows were all shut. Hesitantly, i knocked the door.”

An elderly lady opened the door a little. She looked like a maid. She annoyingly blurted something in her own language and closed the door again.
The things have not moved my way, I knocked the door again. This time when the lady swung open the door a little, I was quick to try a mime with gestures – “I am Bijon. From Calcutta.” I wished that she will understand my miming efforts and announce my arrival to the person inside.

Ice melted a bit. A little later, the lady came again and let me in. I was led through a dark stair to the floor above. I entered in a big, dark room with all windows and doors shut. And then with all surprise, there was Mr. Bali !!

He was sitting on a chair at the end of a big table. A dim puddle of light from a table lamp has dispelled the room’s darkness a little. The table was scattered with books, papers and files. There was a magnifying glass and several stone pieces, looking like archeological objects. The walls of the room are lined with book cases, filled with books.I understood that Mr. Bali is at work in his library. It is a sigh of relief to me that the rumour of his arrest is not true.

‘Pl come in and sit down. You are Bijon, nephew of Mr. Bramha, has come here on a vacation from Calcutta – is it not ?”

I got startled. Why Mr. Bali is behaving as if I am an unknown person ? During last fortnight, he had dropped in at my uncles place several times when he met me, we chatted together, played games of chess. He, by now, should know me pretty well. Then ?

With a caressing smile, the person in front has now put me in ease. “Mr. KN Bali, whom you came to meet, is my elder brother. I am Sukhvir, his younger brother. I live at Goa.I run a tile manufacturing business. I visit Hospete quite often on business. Now say, how can I help you ? My brother is not at home now.”

I battled my jolt to become settled. Such a close look-alike ! The gait, the talking style, the waving of hands – all carry an uncanny similarity.

Being relieved that Mr. Bali is not in any police custody, I asked for his present whereabouts and ways to meet him mow.

– “He is now busy in his studio.”

– Studio ? I wondered. “Is he a photographer?”

– “A cartographer.” Mr Sukhvir corrected. “And his studio is scattered all over the hills, caves, rivers, lakes and ruins around Hampi. Presently, he is doing his research at Sugreeb gufa.”

I tried to tell him about the slander that have been heaped on Mr. Bali.

– Yes. I have heard of that. But colony people are mistaken. The police had come to see me, not my brother. They came in connection with a dispute in my tile business.

I became forthright – “You mean to say that such police visit has no connection with the case of child-lifting from the train ?”

This news took Mr. Sukhvir by surprise. He knew nothing about any missing child. I gave him an update on the current perception of the colony people in this matter. He was at agony at the possible harassment of his brother who is nnocent. He tried to find some remedy of this unpleasant situation.

Next day, he rode down to our Colony Club in his Lambretta scooter and invited me to be a pillon-rider to a rendezvous. In mid 60s, scooter was a novelty, owned by few people only. So the pillion ride offer was too tempting. I sat on the pillion. We vroomed out.

“On the bank of river Tungabhadra, there is a village – Gangawati. There is a hillock there. We are goding to that place. It will take half an hour to reach.”

Excitement of an adventure was climbing.
Sprinkling a little more pep to it, Sukhvir added in a hushed tone – The cave is there only !
– Cave ? What cave ? My curiosity was bursting at it seams.
– That is the studio of Mr. Bali. Last night, there was a mild earthquake. That had displaced some big stones on the hillside which had opened the mouth of a cave.

As we were moving forward, the roads became undulating.
“See there, that’s Pompa Lake. Sita had taken a dip here in the days of Ramayana.”
A beautiful lake, surrounded by lush vegetation, was in sight.

Sukhvir finally reached at the base of a hillock and parked his scooter. And there we could see the outline of Mr. Bali, climbing down from the top of the hillock. He was wearing a miner’s search light on his head-strap. I was very delighted to see him again in person. He reached us and gave me a warm embrace and exclaimed with joy. He was palpably euphoric.

“Bijon, you have interest in it. So I am sharing it with you. My research for so many years has come to success today.” Excitement was spilling out from Mr. Bali’s voice.

I was hardly able to rein in my outburst. “Have you found the travelogue of Nicolo Conti ? And the Fra Mouro map ?”

– “Fra Mauro map’s original is now kept in a Venice Museum. It is a circular planisphere, drawn on parchment and set in a wooden frame that measures more than 2 mts x 2 mts. But you want to see a copy of that map ? A map which had traced the sea-route to India much before than Vasco Da Gama actually charted the voyage.”

He was talking passionately while we started climbing the hillock in a file. Mr. Bali continued – Conti was a muli-faceted talent. He was an excellent cartographer also. The walls of this cave proves that.

We have entered the cave through a small opening that had peeped out when a huge stone got displaced due to last night’s earthquake. Inside the cave, it was like a dark tunnel, with huge walls surrounding us. Light from Mr. Bali’s headlamp was unravelling in patches, the treasures which were lying there for hundreds of years. Beyond that light puddle, all were dark.