[note1: This is a post I made on another blog earlier. I just thought I should put everything together in one place ^_^]
[note2: Each folk story has multiple versions. Because they were never written down and passed down the generations orally, variations are expected. This is the version I heard from my grandmother over a decade ago.]
Far away, far ago, in a little village perched on a hilltop, lived a jhumia family of five. They lived their ordinary peaceful lives until one ordinary peaceful day when the son and the daughter came upon a stream on their way to the fields.
“The sun shines bright and the water seems shallow. Lets walk through it”, said the brother.
“Ao”, agreed his younger sister. She cheerfully pulled up her rignai and tiptoed into the coolness of the flowing stream, and once on the other bank, turned back to look at her brother who stood oddly frozen, refusing to follow her.
Surprised, the sister asked, “Why do you stand still like that? The fields need to be worked upon and the sun rises higher in the sky. We are going to be late.”
After unending moments of hesitation, he silently turned and walked homewards instead, without a word.
That day onwards, the brother remained curiously gloomy and disturbed, lost in thoughts, refusing to eat well, unable to sleep well. Seeing him torn, his parents were worried out of their wits. Because he just would not reveal what sorrows burdened him.
And it went on and on until one day, his grandmother could not endure any longer to see her grandson fall deeper and deeper into his unspoken sufferings. She slowly walked up to where he sat, brooding, and said, “You have been this way for so long. What weighs on your heart? Do you pine for a girl?”
To this, he finally looked up.
The grandmother released her pent-up breath and laughed, “So it indeed is about a girl. You want to get married! But, grandson, who is it?”
He sat there in silence, staring at the brown of the earth beneath his feet.
So his grandmother probed on, “Now do not be so shy! Is it Kuphurti who lives three huts away?”
Still no answer.
After relentlessly naming all the eligible maidens from the village and receiving no signs of a ‘yes’ from her grandson, she gave up in exhaustion, and mockingly yelled at him, “There is only one unmarried girl left to be named. Your sister. What, do you want to marry your own sister?”
“Yes.”
Days passed on, the parents and the grandmother tried endlessly to talk him out of the trance he seemed to be in. They said, “It is a taboo. It is a sin. To marry your own younger sister, what do you think people would say?
But he was not to be moved by the rules of the society, or by sense. He could not erase the image of his sister crossing the stream that day, the sunshine flickering in the ever-playful flow of the water, the way she had pulled up her clothes to her knees to avoid getting drenched, the way her legs were so beautiful. Oh, the way her legs are so beautiful. He yearned for her. With every fleeting minute, his heart ached in longing for her.
Understanding that there is no other remedy, the family finally agreed to the marriage, and they began all preparations in secrecy. The father chopped bamboos from the forest and spent afternoons weaving the bamboo, constructing a new hut for the couple. The women laid rice on the earth to dry in the sun, prepared to organize the feast, weaved clothes on the loom for the wedding.
But the sister was in oblivion.
One day, while she was at the fields with the other young maidens, she was asked, “Looks like your family is making preparations for a marriage. Are you getting married? Or is it your brother?” She could not answer.
Upon returning home that evening, she decided to ask her grandmother who pretended not to know anything. But the girl could not ignore that her family was indeed behaving quite suspiciously.
Then, on a fateful day, it so happened that everybody was gone to the fields to work, except for the old grandmother who sat watching the paddy strewn on the ground for drying. Occasionally, birds would come eat a grain or two and she would shoo them away.
The girl had not gone to the fields. She silently sat under a tree in the courtyard, pondering over what affairs her family could be hiding from her. Another bird flew down and hurriedly stole a few grains before old grandmother took notice and said out loud, unaware of her grand-daughter’s presence, “Shoo, bird, shoo! The rice is being dried for the wedding of my grandson to my granddaughter. Don’t eat. Shoo!”
Overhearing this, the girl was shocked and she went up to her grandmother, who was utterly surprised as she thought she was home alone.
Shaken with such news, the girl was in tears. She spoke up, “How could you think of marrying me to my brother? Why do I not know of this? “ Having kept her own marriage a secret unknown to her and having lied about not being aware of anything, the old grandmother was sad and ashamed. She could not reply.
The girl wept in helplessness and rage. She knew that there was no one she could beg to for help. Her own family had deceived her.
That night, sinking into a sorrowful slumber, she had a dream. A kind old stranger appeared to her and, smiling warmly, said, “Oh poor child, do not lose heart. Seek out a Chethuang seedling. Plant it, worship it, and pray to it for help.”
At the break of dawn, the roosters began to crow, and the village stirred with people awakening. The girl sat up, walked down to the river for a bath in the water that could never be as cold as her heart now. The fires of the forest could never burn the way her heart burned now. Yet, the storm within her had subsided and she solemnly decided to go about her day as usual, not letting anyone know of her despair.
At the fields, she remained distant from her friends, seemingly engrossed in her work. But not another soul knew that she was desperately and devotedly looking for a seedling of the Chethuang tree.
Every dawn, she would wake up, go down to the river for a bath, help her mother prepare food, and then leave for the fields. Every day, she would look for what she thought was her last resort, her only saviour. And this, she never mentioned to anyone. Every day, the wedding crept closer.
Before long, she found what she had been looking for. Holding the tiny plant in her palms, she felt a thin streak of light and warmth enter, through the cracks, into her cold damp heart. The plant was small, her fate unclear before her eyes, but she held on to the last twines of hope, refusing to fall.
She planted her only hope in a corner of the field and watered it, begging it to grow.
The sun dived lower and the western sky was crimson. The women were leaving for home and called out to her. She called back, asking them to start, that she would follow soon.
But she stayed on and sang to the plant, her tears falling on the earth,
Dada bai ano kainani hino
Log chethuang log.
(They say I shall be married to my brother
Grow tall, chethuang, grow tall.)
To this, the seedling stirred and began to grow.
The moon emerged on the east, illuminating the sky, casting its mellowness on the village, the steady trees, the stream, the crops in the fields swaying with the breeze, the tips of the bamboos in the forest and the girl who knelt on before the growing Chethuang, singing.
Upon her not returning, the family was in chaos. Night had fallen and their daughter was not home yet. They rushed to their neighbours who informed them how she was last seen at the paddy fields and had wanted to stay a little longer than the rest.
On they went rushing towards the fields in the night air, worried for the young maiden, as the forests were full of nocturnal predators.
The breeze caressed the bamboos, the crops and her beautiful long black hair, the moon hanging in the blue of the sky behind her. She sat there singing to her tree, which was now growing faster to her voice. She perched on one of its branches, her song becoming one with the night.
And on kept the Chethuang growing, carrying her to the sky.
When the villagers arrived, they were in shock. The mother fell to the earth and cried, and the father tried to plead with his daughter. But her singing went on and on, and the tree kept growing on and on.
In desperation, the father gathered a few men and they began to chop down the tree.
And she sang,
Phungsa tankhani phungba baridi
Log chethuang log.
Dada bai ano kainani hino
Log chethuang log.
(Take one blow and grow fives times thicker
Grow tall, Chethuang, grow tall.
They say I shall be married to my brother
Grow tall, Chethuang, grow tall)
The tree grew thicker and thicker, and it was impossible to cut it down.
Realizing that they were going to lose their daughter, the distressed couple cried out, “Oh beloved daughter, please come down. You shall not be married to your brother. He shall be beheaded.” They fetched some blood so that she could see for herself; there is no brother left to marry.
She sang on,
Ang ba siya de, ang ba chugya de
Swila kosom tan.
Dakkhin gwla ni nobar sibwi faidi,
Babu no khulumnani
Uttor gwla ni nobar sibwi faidi
Ama no khulumnani
(Am I unwise? Am I incapable?
That you behead a black hound.
Southern wind, come blowing in
Let me salute my father.
Northern wind, come blowing in
Let me salute my mother.)
To this, the wind came gushing, stirring the leaves of the trees. The villagers watched on as her parents wept on. She paid her last respects to her mother and father, continuing to fill the night with her song.
And on kept the Chethuang growing, carrying her to the sky, until she disappeared among the clouds.
Songs from the Bamboo Forest 