Another Hunt

Think of a flower, rub your hands and smell it, if it’s jasmine, you thought jasmine it is, and if a rose or marigold, the fragrance is of your thought. Subliminal, they say, not fully bathed in light, not in the dark, at the threshold of light. Draupadi emerged from a full moon-shaped Kund, the sun was not up, there were no shadows. Bopa stood transfixed, a distance away, enjoying the hardening shaping up. The water drops clung and dripped from her hairs, from her breast and from all the eminences. She shook her head scattering the droplets in a glorious arc. Almost like a bitch, my bitch, Bopa thought a moment too late. A young man hidden in the tall grass went and caught Draupadi in an embrace from behind. She bent down and shook him off like another drop, a soft laugh at such a big one. At the first indication of Arun’s sixteen-horsed chariot, the couple dissolved into shadows; their time was up. They saw Dawn, the Usha, escaping away from the sun.

She bent and shook him off like another drop, a soft laughter at such a big one. Usha, fleeing the sun, chasing the dance of eternity. The subliminal time was up there, with that continuous subliminal space. Now Usha fleeing and Arun chasing in that daily cosmic dance when the sun came up, Usha flees Sun gives a chase never catching up.

Dividing the world into binaries, day and night. First bus must be waiting, Bopa thought, so he continued his 10-minute climb up to the Road. Birds chirruped, the cock gave his second warning, people attuned to the harsh sound of the bus spreading like an envelop in the silent valley. Some came out to see the departure of the only officer from the village, their heads turned to follow the bus.

The first Bus stop was at Banlagi, a place with a temple of Durga, the lion-riding mother Goddess. Bopa got down, removed his shoes, and offered flowers and a princely amount of eleven Rupees. Ban Lagi was the chief protector of the village; her subordinate, gram Devta, called Virs, was posted in each village. Virs would go around the perimeter of the village, mounted on their white horses, affording a good night’s sleep to the villagers, from wild animals and plague.

Few would see them and among them was Bopa Rai. Bopa remembered with pleasure his previous day when, at the sound of a wild fowl, Bopa snatched his double-barrel and jumped, and ran criss-cross into the field to identify the sound location, the fowl watched, certain that the man is not after him, looking at his random twists and turns, he gave an another boastful cry when the gun spat. Bopa’s trusty Beagle, now caught up in excitement, barked and ran excitedly, and soon fetched the warm fowl and released it after some teasing of Bopa.

Bopa reluctantly thought of his second day of leave when youngsters had organised a Boar hunt, down a steephead valley or maybe a V-shaped canyon, this one was densely wooded. The plan was to drive the criminal Boars down the valley using hunting dogs, cymbals and trumpets, where the Hunters would wait for the boars to surface. Bopa stood his ground while the Boar came charging at him, pumped in two bullets, which slowed the Boar’s charge, but not enough; it threw him off centre for sure, but it still nicked Bopa’s Calf, which felled him and stumbled on. Bopa rose and loaded the gun again, ran after the Boar, but found it only a few meters away. Instead of exulting, Bopa watched the Boar die. The birds stopped chirping. The Boar looked at Bopa, who noticed two shots on the same side of the neck and thought that if they had been on both sides, he would have also been svaha with the Boar. He and Boar lay side by side, till the hunt was over and Bopa was found injured. They had a successful hunt, taking down five boars.

They had great luck, as the chief Boar, Bopa,had killed was at least a hundred Kilograms. All the boars were slung, and a rough stretcher was made for Bopa, with a roughly tied shirt around his wound. Boars were hung, 400 Kg of haul for 5 Boars, time was of the essence as the Forest guard would come sniffing around, so instead of the standard practice of burning the hair in fire and scraping they resorted to twin sided shaving blabe, the meat was divided hurriedly, and all the hunters left with 20 Kg odd to thier own village, all traces of the cutting erased, Bopa watched. The next day, Bopa woke up with a fever and throbbing pain in his leg. He refused the pork. The Doctor in the PHC refused the stitches and cellulitis, antibiotic injection, TT and rest. The wound healed, but the jitters didn’t. Bopa knew his affinity to and blessing of the Boar; it had been almost a 1000 years since 1150 AD, when he had made his first Kill, and now was wounded for the first time. In his fevered, hot, and clear head, the great Vikramditya surfaced, Tribhuvan Mallah, Bopa smiled. Wrestler of the three world.

Next in the series

1. Remembrance of the Lost Past

• You lean into the fever and the sense that Bopa carries memories beyond one life.
• Childhood scenes, ancestral hunts, village myths, or even medieval battles could surface.
• This keeps the tone mythic, cyclic, eternal — time folds back, Bopa is both himself and his predecessors.

2. Coming of Age / Retrieval of Eternal Memories

• More personal, more psychological.
• How Bopa interprets the wound as an initiation — crossing from hunter to hunted, boy to man, officer to elder.
• Memory retrieval could mean sudden flashes: 1150 AD, or his own youth, or half-forgotten village tales.
• This keeps the tone philosophical, reflective, intimate.

3. Terrorist Incident

• Pivot sharply into the modern world.
• The officer boards a bus, or is back in the valley, when violence erupts.
• The mythic undertone remains (boar’s tusk, Draupadi, Usha), but now refracted through the brutality of politics and insurgency.
• This keeps the tone urgent, violent, contemporary.