It was a moonless night when a crowd of villagers in Jasinapur sat under the shade of a huge banyan tree. This was their usual meeting spot, a place where they chatted their idle hours away. Gusts of wind often shook the nearby trees. Only the rustling of leaves and the animated conversations amongst the village folk could pierce the eerie silence of the night.
That particular night, they were discussing gods, deities, and the various tribal beliefs that people harbored. Just then, a man passing by stood for a few moments, listening in on their conversation. He then walked up to them and smiled merrily.
‘I’m Jayant. I’m an archaeologist. If you don’t mind, I’d like to join your discussion,’ he said.
The villagers nodded as he sat on a large stone amidst them. Jayant was carrying a large picture wrapped in paper. The villagers looked at the picture and wondered what it was. However, they kept quiet out of courtesy, waiting for Jayant to speak.
‘Friends, I’d like to show you something,’ said Jayant, unwrapping the paper. He revealed the picture. The villagers looked at it, wanting to learn more about it.
Jayant continued, ‘This is a picture of the well-known Persian deity, Oskwanga. I got it from my friend, who owns an antique shop here. This deity is special, you know. The tribals who worshiped Oskwanga would say that the deity grew twice its size every full-moon night. At first, I assumed it was nothing more than a superstitious belief. But every time I gazed at this picture, I felt an irresistible urge to visit this place.’
‘As days went by, I couldn’t hold the urge back. I intuitively felt that the picture was calling me. When I couldn’t wait any longer, I wrote a letter to my friend and announced that I was coming to Persia.’
‘When I got there, I was welcomed by my friend. I told him that I wanted to learn more about Oskwanga. But even he knew very little about the deity. He said that he had received the picture from Twang-se Hou, a Chinese traveler, who lived in an inn in Persia.’
‘Soon, I was sitting with Twang-se Hou, talking about Oskwanga. I asked him where the deity was to be found. Now, Hou was an elderly man in his late sixties. He had a wizened face and slanting eyes. His brows rose up when I inquired about Oskwanga. He told me that there was a small village called Swisikag in the far eastern corner of Persia. The tribal folks in the village, known as Swisiks, worshipped Oskwanga’
‘He explained that he had been given the picture of Oskwanga as a gift by the tribal chief. I asked Twang whether he had glimpsed the phenomenon of Oskwanga growing twice its size, but he shook his head sadly. The chief told him that only the villagers had witnessed that miracle, and outsiders were not privy to the spectacle. I asked him the way to Swisikag. While he did give me the directions, he warned me that the Swisiks were a dangerous lot.’
‘I pondered over everything that Twang-se Hou told me. I made up my mind to set off to Swisikag. That was where I met a man who lived in a small hut. His name was Skibara. He was as fascinated with Oskwanga as I was. Much to my delight, he agreed to accompany me. We started making plans.’
‘We decided to take a shortcut through the dense forest, which, as Skibara claimed, was the way he always took in secret. It was already dark and the moon had yet to appear. It felt like we had been crawling through the bushes for several years, when Skibara tugged at me excitedly. Soon, I spotted a group of tribals dressed in strange clothes.’
‘However, I was infatuated with seeing Oskwanga, so we both climbed up a tree. As we waited up there, my heart began racing with excitement.’
‘As the moon shone through the clouds, I craned my neck to get a better view of Oskwanga. However, just then, a strong gust of wind blew. It began raining dust, leaves, and twigs. We were blinded. As the wind howled ever so loudly, I could hear the angry screams of the tribals. They were mad at the intruders in their village.’
‘Soon, the tribal men ran around with their spears. They were looking for us, the intruders. The storm blew even more furiously and I slipped down from the tree, falling down with a thud. By this point, I could hear the tribals rushing toward me. I could also feel someone pulling me. I screamed at the top of my lungs. To my relief, it was Skibara. Soon, we were both running like crazy. The tribals were hot on our heels.’
‘Skibara skillfully led me through the thick woods. Before long, the tribals lost track of us as we safely made it to Skibara’s hut, where we had some tea.’
The villagers listened open-mouthed as Jayant narrated his story. ‘What happened?’ ‘Didn’t you see the miracle?’ The villagers bombarded him with one question after another.
Jayant slowly folded the picture back. He wrapped it in the paper and got up to leave.
‘Friends, there are two important things I’d like to say. One, I wasn’t able to witness the miracle of Oskwanga,’ Jayant said and began walking away.
The villagers sat bewildered and astonished. It was obvious that the story had completely captivated them. A villager stood up and yelled at Jayant.
‘Hey, what’s the other important thing?’
Jayant turned and smiled at them.
‘Oh! I forgot. The other important thing is… that this picture is the painting of an archaeological finding, and I’m taking it to my friend. You see, I made up the whole Oskwanga story over the course of my journey,’ saying so, Jayant walked away.
The villagers sat dumbfounded. They stared at each other, wondering what kept them from pouncing on Jayant. But they soon laughed it off, for they couldn’t say that they hadn’t enjoyed the tale of Oskwanga.
As fond of writing a good story as he is of reading one, Pravin is one of the most promising writers at Ameya. He can be contacted at pravinkumar2788@gmail.com.