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Miles and miles of marshland and sandy tracks, but nothing could disturb the curiosity of Dr Batstone, the distinguished sociologist from the West. After fifty miles the jeep had to be abandoned in favour of a bullock-cart, and when the cart got stuck in a stretch of mud, we had to plod on to reach our village.

Dr Batstone who had lived in a city of skyscrapers practically all his life had expressed a keen desire to experience a real Indian village.

This was before our villages suffered the intrusion of huge red triangles glorifying birth control, politicians preaching patriotism and billboards on the virtues of small savings and cigarettes, not to speak of loudspeakers blaring from community centres.

Dr Batstone relaxed in an armchair on our spacious verandah and muttered to himself, once every five minutes, ‘Wonderful, fantastic!’

There was no need to ask him what was wonderful or fantastic. That one could drive for eighty miles without meeting a single automobile was wonderful. That a hundred cattle could march through fenceless paddy fields with absolute abstinence, obeying a tiny tot’s hooting, was as fantastic as the Pied Piper’s magic. Wonderful was the huge rainbow, fantastic the revelation that ninety-seven per cent of our villagers lived quite contented without having seen a locomotive or a cinema.

But his most wonderful experience had been an interview with the head pundit of the ‘Model’ Lower Primary School of our village, Shri Maku Mishra, who, Dr Batstone learnt, had taught for forty years without having heard of Hegel or Marx or Freud or Einstein, or even Bernard Shaw and Charlie Chaplin.

Nobody had ever dreamed that a day would dawn when a real Sahib would set foot on the soil of our insignificant village. The Malika, an ancient folk epic of prophecies and prognostications, which had foretold the great cyclone of half a century ago, the collapse of a local temple two decades thereafter and even the emergence of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, had failed to make a mention of such a possibility. No wonder that the two dozen daring, leaderly and scholarly males of our village sat in front of Dr Batstone throughout the afternoon doing nothing but gaping at him and smiling respectfully.

Dr Batstone realized how amused the people had been. He told me several times, ‘Well, Baboo, I did not really know that I could mean so much! What a pity I can do so little to please them. I would have loved to perform acrobatics or even a dance, had I known any such art, for the sake of your wonderful people.’

Suddenly the professor asked, Tell me. Baboo, do all these people believe in ghosts?’

No sooner had I interpreted the Sahib’s question to our people than they began shaking their heads. The professor leaned forward with a jerk. Now it was his turn to gape at the audience. ‘Believe me. Baboo,’ he confessed, ‘your people are much more progressive than ours. At least fifty per cent of my countrymen believe in ghosts whether they admit it or not. Now, please find out for me, Baboo, do all these people believe in God?’

I translated the question. The villagers exchanged glances, but kept quiet, looking intrigued. But the professor had his own interpretation of their silence. ‘Obviously, they are sceptical,’ he observed. But soon, after some collective coughing, the villagers, one by one, began to explain their reactions to the question: ‘Take it from us. Sahib, it is quite inadvisable to believe the ghosts. How much conscience do they possess? I tell you, absolutely nil!’ declared Maku Mishra.

‘Will you believe, Sahib, that he was my cousin, my very own father’s own maternal uncle’s own son-in-law’s own nephew? And hadn’t I done everything for him, from sharing my pillow with him to doing half the shopping for his marriage? Yet who in this wide world does not know that this treacherous brother-in-law of mine, I mean his ghost, chose to harass me out of all the thousands and millions of people of my village, within a week of his death? Who does not know that for a whole year, till his annual Shraddha ceremony had fully satisfied him and for your information I was obliged to share half of the expense–I never stepped out of my house at night even at the most pressing call of nature?’ declared Shombhudas, the moneylender.

‘No, Sahib, you, after all, are a stranger to them and a visitor from across the seven seas to boot. How much do you know about the native ghosts? You ought not to trust them. If they get a chance they twist the necks of even the exorcists!’ revealed the second pundit of the school.

‘Of course it would be libellous to say that there were no good-natured ghosts at all. As a boy I saw the illustrious Mahatma Languly Baba. Yes, I saw him with these very eyes. Baboo, would you kindly explain to the Sahib that the Baba wore not even a piece of finger-long linen? I saw him when he was three centuries old. Isn’t the history of his birth and his life most amazing? Once a terrible plague struck the land and the Mahatma’s mother, taken for dead, was thrown in the cremation ground as people were fed up with burying or burning their dead with so many dying every day. And what do you think happened? The Mahatma was born right there in the cremation ground and howled for one full day and night beside his mother’s corpse until he was picked up by a couple of vagrants. Tell me, who protected the Mahatma for twenty-four hours? Jackals and dogs and vultures and ravens were all there, but all sat twelve yards away, watching the Mahatma in silent awe. Tell me, who threw an invisible cordon around the infant Mahatma?’ One of our prominent villagers threw this question like a challenge to all and sundry while inching nearer the professor and promptly provided the answer himself, ‘Evidently, a committee of enlightened ghosts! Did Languly Baba ever care to talk to human beings or did he care to wear clothes? Never! If at all he mumbled something, it was for the invisibles around him.’

‘And, Sahib, isn’t the issue of believing in God or not quite absurd? Is God a moneylender or pawnbroker that the question of trust should arise? He created the earth, he brought us down here, he will take us away elsewhere, he will bring us here again, he will take us away, again he will…’

All heads swayed in rhythm suggesting general approval of the head pundit’s observation.

I translated him faithfully. The professor leaned back. ‘Fantastic!’ he exclaimed.

‘Beyond the river, Sahib, we can show you the spot where Languly Baba took birth. You can see the place for yourself if you doubt the story! ’

Dr Batstone brightened up at the reference to the river. ‘No hot water for me tomorrow, please,’ he told me, I must have a dip in your sweet river. The water looks so inviting! There are no crocodiles, I hope!’

My knowledge of my village was meagre, having lived in the town since childhood. I questioned my people about crocodiles. They seemed scandalized and put this counter-question to me almost in a spirit of protest: ‘Crocodiles? Of course they are very much there in the river, Baboo! They cannot live atop trees or hills, as you should know better than us having read bulky books! But do they ever harm the people of our village? What have we to fear from a crocodile as long as the Crocodile’s Lady is there with us?’

Several of them pointed their fingers in a certain direction. I had no desire to translate their statements in full. I simply informed the professor that there was no cause for fear from crocodiles.

But the professor must know everything the villagers said. Their pointing their fingers in a certain direction had not escaped his notice.

I had to tell him what I knew:

‘Dr Batstone, that is a crazy story. You know how credulous our people are. Years ago there lived an aged couple on the river-bank. They had a daughter who had been married at the age of three and had become a widow at four. She lived with her parents and, people say, grew up to be a beautiful damsel.

‘One day while bathing in the river with the other women she was dragged away by a crocodile. She was naturally given up for dead. But a decade later she suddenly reappeared in the village. Her father had died and her mother was dying. Their little hut on the river was in shreds.

‘One morning, two days later, a crocodile was found crawling on the embankment behind her hut. The earth, loose at one place, gave way under its weight. It slipped down on the village side of the embankment and the people thrashed it to death.

‘The young woman’s mother died and perhaps she was too sad to talk to anybody. She wept and kept to her hut. Somehow a strange story began to circulate: the crocodile which had carried away the girl had in due course married her. Unable to bear the separation when the lady did not return to it, the creature had arrived to take her back! ’

‘Great!’ exclaimed the beaming professor.

‘And there is a sequel to the legend. Our people believe that out of respect for the woman who had once condescended to marry a member of their species, the crocodiles of the river do not harm the villagers! And this in spite of the fact that the chivalrous crocodile had been killed,’ I added.

‘And what happened to the woman? ’ asked the professor, agog with excitement.

‘She is very much there – must be in her nineties – known as the Crocodile’s Lady,’ I replied. ‘By turns the villagers feed her. They also repair her hut when necessary.’

‘But what did the woman really do during that mystifying decade? What could have happened to her after the crocodile had carried her away?’

I don’t know. And I doubt if anybody ever took the trouble to investigate. She narrates some tales when asked and that satisfies our womenfolk and kids.’

‘Fantastic! ’ cried the professor, ‘Please, Baboo, let us once interview the venerable lady. Let us dig out the facts. Let us solve the enigma to our satisfaction! ’

Moonrise was still an hour away. I led the way with a torch. The professor stumbled twice, first against a mildly protesting dog and then against a tortoise out for a nocturnal meander. But he did not mind the inconvenience.

The Crocodile’s Lady sat crouching beside a kerosene lamp in a corner of her hut, softly singing to herself, with her chin on her knees. She smiled at us most affably. We sat down facing her and poured into her ancient stone vessel some crushed rice and sweetened milk with which her toothless gums should have no difficulty. She smiled again.

‘Look, Granny, here is a Sahib, not a native baboo, mind you, but a pure Sahib, who has come to us flying through the blue. He desires to hear something from you.’

She showed neither surprise nor hesitation. ‘I’ll tell you about the wandering prince and the princess under a wizard’s charm,’ she offered.

‘Oh no. Granny, we would like to hear something about yourself. People call you the Crocodile’s Lady, don’t they? But would you tell us what happened to you during the ten years you were away from the village–where exactly did you live and what did you do?’

She had no difficulty in hearing. And what amazed me was the ease with which she spoke although her voice was no louder than a bee’s drone. Dr Batstone asked me to translate every word she uttered. I did so as literally as possible:

‘After the crocodile caught me, my son, he took me down, down, down seven palm trees deep! I did not know what to do….’

‘Oh no. Granny, we are not interested in tales. We wish to know what really happened. To begin with, how did you manage to escape from the crocodile?’ I interrupted her.

There was no change in her tone. She continued, ‘Under the seven palm trees deep water, my son, when I regained my consciousness, I saw the crocodile intently staring into my eyes. I don’t know what happened to me. I could not take my eyes away from his.

‘Granny, if you don’t remember how you escaped from the crocodile, at least tell us all about your life thereafter,’ I interrupted her again.

‘But how could have I escaped, my son?’ she asked. ‘Could I take away my eyes? No! Under the seven-palm trees deep water, there was no sun, no moon, no day, no night. How can I say how long I remained like that?’

I gave up, partly because I found her impossible, but mainly because of the irresistible curiosity and the rapt attention with which Dr Batstone was listening to her. I resigned myself to faithfully rendering into English whatever she said.

She talked for nearly an hour and a half. In the flickering flames of the lamp our phantom shadows danced on the mud wall and occasionally we could hear the oars stabbing the water in the river behind her hut. With great zest and earnestness she went on narrating the story of her life with the crocodile in a deep pit at the confluence of two rivers, miles to the north of our village.

She would have tried to escape, but floating on the surface of the river she had discovered a terrible thing–she saw her reflection in the water: it was that of a crocodile! Was it when the crocodile carried her, unconscious, to his home that the change had come over her? Or was it when they remained looking at each other? She did not know.

She felt miserable and wept. The crocodile tried his best to make her accept the condition in good humour. But he did not succeed. At last the melancholy crocodile told her: ‘Well, then, take this mantra. Whenever you recite it thrice, you will resume your human form. But it will not work as long as I am near you, for, the moment you recite it, I cannot help reciting another mantra to counter its effect.’

The crocodile could not restrain his tears when he went out for his regular swim the next day. I know I will not find you when I return. But take care not to recite the mantra while you are in deep water so you don’t drown! Recite it only after swimming up to your village ghat, close to the bank,’ was his parting advice.

But the crocodile found her waiting for him when he returned. He was overjoyed. And he continued to find her there day after day after day….

They swam together happily from shore to shore and from confluence to confluence. One day they entered a bigger river and swam for many miles until they arrived at the famous ghat of a holy city. The lady asked the crocodile, ‘May I go into the city for a glimpse of the deity?’ He gladly agreed and waited. She went near the ghat, recited the mantra, assumed her human form, visited the temple and returned by evening. As soon as she jumped into the water the crocodile uttered his mantra and changed her into his mate. What a delight was theirs!

This was repeated several times, and she visited several holy spots on the river. But despite her great longing, she avoided visiting her own village lest she should fail to return to her crocodile.

It was only after ten years that she felt overwhelmed by the memory of her parents. The crocodile gave her permission to go and see them upon the condition that she would return within a day. She came and found that her father had died years ago. Her mother was on the point of death with no one to attend upon her. She remained in the hut for two days until her mother breathed her last. But in the meantime the anxious crocodile had risked climbing the embankment, only to be killed.

The Crocodile’s Lady had lived alone in her hut for nearly seventy years.

A pair of jackals howled right in front of the hut and the professor woke up from his trance. The bright moonlight was softened by mist.

We walked silently. The professor stumbled against the same dog which did not protest this time and perhaps the same tortoise now on its way back to the river. But his mind did not seem to register the encounters. He walked like a somnambulist.

He suddenly stopped on the river-bank.

‘Where is that confluence?’ he asked.

‘Which confluence?’

‘Why, where they lived – the crocodile and his lady!’

I laughed and uttered the professor’s pet word, ‘Fantastic!’ and added, ‘Dr Batstone, I’m afraid, you took Granny’s tale too seriously.”

The professor grew grave. We resumed our homeward walk. But now he walked like the intellectual he was.

Years later the professor wrote to me from his city of skyscrapers: ‘Often I pass into a reverie remembering the days and nights I spent in your village. Surely, I was under the spell of a mantra (who uttered it?) for a brief time. Fantastic!’