The ghosts swarm.
They speak as one
person. Each
loves you. Each
has left something
undone…
– Rae Armantrout
Many years ago, before the advent of television introduced the residents of Mangaldai, in central Assam, to various unfamiliar celebrities, the town had its own unique set of such personalities. Back then, Mangaldai was a Macondo-esque sleepy town, where nothing ever really changed, and Karimchowk, where our home is, with its handful of shops and two schools – a primary and a high school – was a tiny corner of the town.
The town suffered from a lack of visible celebrities to the extent that even the burglar and the local brute were, in a way, famous. Adding a descriptive identifier was a common practice; maybe it still is. Thus, for example, Raghu, who habitually got into fist-fights and brawls, was called Raghu Gunda, and Madhu the local burglar was called Madhu Chor – names which would eventually become Raghugunda and Madhuchor respectively. Damayanti, Madhu's mother, was no longer known as Damayanti, but rather as Madhuchor's mother.
The biggest celebrity of Karimchowk in those days, however, was the elephant that belonged to Kalimuddin Mahajan (Kalimuddin Ahmed really, but people added the honorific Mahajan as he was a businessman). Whenever a truck or a bus (there were very few cars back then) got stuck in the mud, this elephant would come to the rescue. Mubarak, the mahout, would sit on its back with the arrogance and nonchalance of a Mughal emperor, while people rushed to the elephant with bunches of bananas and other 'bribes', rasgulla included. The elephant would leisurely devour the offerings and then with some struggle and a powerful thrust or two, push the vehicle out of the mud.