Free Murmur of the Lonely Brook by Debashis Dey

the sheep to the shrine. Darkness set in; a light drizzle kissed the venue; the beat increased while the bugles and cymbals accompanied in high pitch; flowers were offered at the shrine; the two bearers danced with Devta on their shoulders and everyone clapped in unison. One went forward with a long machete; the beat increased; one man held one sheep by the ear to keep it still; the machete came down in one great sweep, and then again; two sheep heads rolled while the bodies shuddered for a few moments before they lay still, the blood dripping on the floor of the shrine. The age-old mountains observed the primitive ritual.
    Diwakar sat alone on the rocks next to the river. He could see everything from there. He did not like the animal sacrifice part and did not understand why every festival called for the sacrifice of innocent animals. But now the sacrifice was over so he moved in closer. It was getting dark and the only light came from the huge fire on which the meat was being cooked. The flames occasionally escaped the sides of the vessel and licked the darkness. Devta was seated in the middle. Everyone sat in circles on the grass. The drums only slowed down a beat. Soon the two women came and served poltu, two for each. Then the women came with liquor, which they poured into the clasped hands of the men. The women made the rounds, serving until the stock was exhausted.
    In the darkness, Diwakar got up silently. He had his share of poltu but was in no mood to have meat. He left for home. He did not feel like going to the shrine.
    Shevak sat with others while waiting for the meat to be served. Others were feeling light-headed, but he was his normal self.
    Naresh looked at him and said, “Why don’t you have a drink, Shevak? Today is auspicious and it’s an offering from Devta!”
    Shevak did not say anything; he just smiled. He knew it was a useless to explain.
    “One sip would not make much difference,” Naresh said again while the others looked on.
    He was a true exception. Shevak looked around and saw everyone looking at him awaiting an answer.
    “I am okay with my bidi,” he said. “I don’t drink or take things that make me lose control of my feet and tongue.”
    “Rightly said,” quipped Arvind. “I also drink within limits.”
    Everyone rolled in laughter, as all knew how big a drunk Arvind was. Only the other day he had kissed his mother-in-law, taking her to be his wife, and gotten a stinging slap.
    The drummers beat their drums and everyone stood up. Devta led the way with his two bearers and all followed. The procession went from one corner of the village to the other, touching every house on its way with the message of harvest and happiness.
    Then all headed for the temple shrine, which was lit with lamps on all corners. The women sat on the broad steps at the far end of the compound. Nisha sat next to Parvati. Ria played with other girls in the compound. Two boys wrestled and rolled in the middle. A group of boys sat in a group and sang a popular Hindi number in chorus. Mahavir and Kishori, the two deaf men, used hand gestures to chat with each other. Elders sat in one corner puffing bidis. A few women cooked poltus, while a few others guarded the cans of liquor. Dogs barked at a distance and then everyone heard the drums. Soon, the party reached the temple and rested Devta in the middle. The drums, cymbals, and bugles changed hands. Women came down from the steps and formed a chain holding hands. Men also formed a chain and then everyone danced in matching steps in slow rhythm, the two groups moving in opposite directions, a few steps forward then one step backward. Shevak now had a drum and was beating it in unison with others.
    The dance went on until midnight and then everyone needed a break. Liquor flowed and half the men were drunk. Someone went and got biscuits from Lalaji’s shop. Someone else distributed candies. And then someone said, “Let’s dance.”
    And everyone shouted, “Let’s