Krishnachuda (Short story )

Krishnachuda
(Short Story )
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That day the sun glared at the earth mercilessly—like a landlord staring in irritation at a tenant who had not paid rent for five months. The heat was unbearable. I looked out through the window.

The sunbeams shimmered upon the bald, treeless, rocky hilltop like oil gleaming on a shaved head. At the foot of the hill stood my small farmhouse with a Rani Ganj tile roof, and inside it I felt as though I had been thrown into a blast furnace..such is the climate of the Garhjat region. In summer, the sun burns here like the furnace of a coal-powered locomotive; in winter, the cold pierces the bones. All day long Iam roasted in my farmhouse, but at night I find equal delight due to the nerve soothing cool air under the moonlit night.

Summer moonlit nights weave an indescribable tapestry of beauty around my farmhouse at the foot of the hill. On one side rises the hill; on the other flows the Kusumi River, and in between lies my farm. Beneath the hill stands a sprawling mango tree—its fruit small and sour, yielding barely a drop of juice, yet the tree itself is vast, spreading over quarter acre of land.

A gentle breeze rustles through its leaves with a soft whisper. The cool touch of the wind fills the heart and soul with delight. Over the green bed of the farm falls a silvery carpet of moonlight. Fatigue melts away from body and mind. Sleep hesitates to descend; instead, a tingling sweetness stirs within.
It was on such a dreamy evening that a girl’s voice suddenly stirred my half-drowsy mind.
“Babu!”
She was no child of five or seven. She was a maiden of sixteen—radiant enough to dazzle body and mind. Like the waxing moon of the tenth night hurrying toward fullness, she was graceful and luminous. There was enough intoxicating nectar in her eyes to bewitch any young man. All the softness of the world seemed gathered upon her cheeks and lips. Her expressive eyes brimmed with unspoken questions. Her arched brows, her dark mischievous eyes like black bees, and the red stone set in her nose-ring bound my restless mind tightly to her.

In that quiet valley at such an hour—how had this natural beauty arrived here? And from where?
Reading my curious eyes instantly, she said, “Babu, my father and I have taken shelter under that flowering tree below the hill. We want to cook. Will you give us a little matchbox to light the stove?”

The flowering tree she mentioned was a Krishnachuda—the flame-red blossom-laden tree, blazing with color as if confused about whom to share its aboundant redness with. Seeing the girl beneath it, I thought perhaps the tree might gift some of its crimson to her—some for her ribbon, some for her lips, some for her painted feet and nails. What else could I call her except "Krishnachuta" as she resembled that Krishnachuda tree herself?
When I addressed her as Krishnachuda , she laughed brightly and said ---
“Babu, my name is not Krishnachuda. My name is Uansi(moon less night).”

“Uansi? Who gave you such an odd name... I asked ?”

“Who else would? My father. My mother wasn’t alive to name me"quipped Uansi .

Handing her the matchbox, I teased, “Doesn't your father even know that the moon does not rise on a moonless night?How could he give sych name to a girl with full moon face”

She snatched the matchbox, laughed again, and vanished into the gathering dusk.

The next day I had almost forgotten her. But in the evening, after freeing myself from farm duties, I felt it my duty to check on my new neighbours . Near the Krishnachuda tree a small hut made of mud and straw was being raised

Uansi was still at work. Sweat dotted her forehead. Mud clung to her hands and feet. Loose strands of hair fell over her face, and her sari was tucked at the waist. She tried repeatedly, unsuccessfully, to push her hair back with her muddy elbow.

“Will you settle here, Krishnachuda?” I asked.She smiled shyly, like the moon emerging from clouds, and called aloud.. “Baba ! I had brought the matchbox from this babu,return it to him.”

Her father, a weary old man, greeted me respectfully. They were from Bhograi in Balasore district. Floodwaters had swallowed their home and fields. “Hunger drove us here,” he said. “Iam at your mercy sahib! Whether you keep us or cast us away —it is in your hands.”
I offered him work at my farm. Tears of gratitude filled his eyes. From then on, father and daughter worked regularly with me.

Touched by the wet earth, Uansi seemed like a vermilion-clad bride intoxicated with life, running about my farm. Her sparkling eyes, lively steps, and blooming youth created a whirlwind of beauty in that small world. Caught in that storm, my mind lost all restraint. I found it wandering in her apple-red cheeks, in the ivory glow beneath her loose hair, in the fragrance of flowers woven into her braid, and in the rhythmic grace of her stride.

But Uansi was no bird to be easily caged. She flew free in the open sky—perching on branches, yet never entering a cage.

One day I discovered she had fallen in love—with a black cobra. Near her hut, inside a broken anthill, lived the sleek serpent. Every morning and evening she placed a bowl of milk before it. The cobra would emerge fearlessly, drink the milk, and retreat. She spoke to it; it listened, hood raised, tongue flickering. If anyone else was present, it would not appear.

Jealousy burned within me.
“Krishnachuda, have you truly given your heart to that cobra?” I asked.
She laughed. “Don’t you know, Babu? He is my groom. I am Uansi,born in moonless night. Who else would marry me? I will wed that serpent.”
Her words felt like poison coursing through my veins.
“I will marry you, Krishnachuda. Stop feeding that cobra milk,” I pleaded.

“No, Babu,” she replied mischievously. “I’ll find you a serpent-bride instead.” And like lightning, she disappeared.

That night I dreamt she had transformed into a golden serpent, coiling around my neck, ready to strike. I awoke drenched in sweat.

Fearing danger, I told her father about her closeness to the cobra. He sighed deeply. “Find a husband for Uansi, Babu.”

Seizing the moment, I expressed my wish to marry her. Tears of joy filled the old man’s eyes. “Is such happiness written in my daughter’s fate?” he asked in disbelief.
I fixed the wedding date on the coming Shukla Dashami,after ten days. Though I spoke this almost like an order, the old man was overjoyed.

But Uansi stopped coming to the farm. I assumed modesty kept her away.

Then one morning, I heard the old man’s heart-rending cries. I ran to their hut. “Babu, all is over!” he wailed.

Inside, I saw the black cobra entwined in Uansi’s loose hair, its mouth pressed against her lips. Her body had turned completely blue. As we entered, the snake slipped away. The old man rushed to kill it with a stick, but I stopped him.

The serpent slowly retreated into the anthill.
The old man’s chest-splitting cries filled the air, and the valley seemed wrapped in unspeakable sorrow.....

(Kulamani sarangi )