Gomkay

I once wrote a short story(never published) about my friend Sukhnath Munda,a dark,wiry,cunning tribal from Ranchi who also happened to be the village headman and Im guessing,around 50 years old.I was all of 6 when I met him and over the next 7 years he was probably my best friend.He created magical memories for me which I cherish to this day.Show me a little boy who has someone to show him the best fishing spots in the lakes and pond around where we stayed.The fact that I accidentally caught a duck is another story.Who can boast of a conjuror who within minutes creates a sturdy bow and arrows lethal enough to kill ?What mysteries he would talk about when we went tramping round the rice fields and hills.Im sure he made up many things,especially when we came upon heaps of animal bones left behind by predators or snake skins shed in moulting.But to my childish mind,nothing could be truer.I loved the old guy and I know that he had a very soft corner for me in his flinty heart.He wore thick,rough sandals made from old truck tyres and a white turban on his head with a jaunty tail which gave him the seal of authority.Oh yes he had a snow white moustache on his dark, leathery and noble face.That was briefly,Sukhnath.
Come friday and he could barely contain his excitement.For it was Market Day in town and he could therefore indulge in both his favorite pastimes,cock fighting and drinking Haria,the potent local rice liquor.I was never allowed to go with him by my stern grandmother.Drinking for her was akin to hobnobbing with the devil.Late in the evening I could hear him weaving his way to our house,high as a kite shouting out the name he used to call me..."Heyyyy Gomkay,I won today...Gomkayyyyyyyy" .It meant Little Chief.I would run down the road to meet him and would see the dead cockerel slung across his shoulder, which was his prize from the cockfight.He would have that sweet smell of Haria I remember so well like a happy cloud round him.In the background would be my grandmother shooting bolts of lightening at this dissipated heathen who was out to corrupt her grandson.I didnt care and would often hug him then just to get a good whiff of the Haria.
We left Ranchi after some years and I left a sobbing Sukhnath at the railway station..his face hidden in the tail of his turban.He died a few months before I visited Ranchi again,and walking down the village road in the dusk on that visit I could swear I saw him and heard him calling out .."Gomkay...I won Gomkay.Im so happy Gomkay."On my wall in a place of honour hangs a black and white picture of Sukhnath and me sitting and playing Ludo on an ancient stone table.The deep bond betwen us is obvious and will remain with me for the rest of my life.