The crisp morning air had a nip to it . I had just returned to my parents’ home , after nearly an year or so .
Tramping barefoot in the garden , my toes hit a small , sharp edge of a piece of rusty junk. I hastily withdrew my foot , for I could feel the sharp jab . A small drop of blood oozed from the big toe .
“Ouch!” Said I . “Tetanus shot !” was the next thought . I hated tetanus shots. They made dead weight of your arm and gave you a strange taste in the mouth.
I found a hanky in my pyjama pockets , and I pressed it to my wound , cursing the gardener for leaving things around , and myself for having decided to walk barefoot.
I still can't fathom why I decided to uproot that piece of junk . Either it was total lack of purpose, or just plain curiosity ( that eventually let the cat out of the bag) or was it vengeance on that inanimate object that still had the ability to ruin my morning.
At first , I flippantly pulled it up. It refused to budge . Then I brought a trowel from the gardeners shed , and sat down to scraping the grass and soil around it . When it started increasing in dimension , as it became slowly unearthed , it became apparent that this was not an ordinary rusty junk . It was buried deep , and was a flank , or a small protruding tip of some thing immensely exciting . In short , I had been bruised by the "tip of the ice berg."
By now , I had got the household excited too. Someone had put a band aid on my toe , and my dad , the gardener and a few odd curious neighbours ( whom I always denounced as "nosy")had gathered around the rusty , odd looking, curved ,flat blade of sorts . Spades were called in , and the gardener was exhorted by breathless Mrs Suri, in her nightie , "not to hurt "the thing"".People gathered around, a motley crowd of the just awake , gawking , in pyjamas , some held cups of steaming brews in their hands .
The spade got to work , and clods of moist mud with clumps of grass sticking to it , flew everywhere.
After sweating for nearly half an hour , there was two and half foot of a curved blade exposed to the air , and an ugly crater , the size of a manure pit had appeared in the centre of my mother's immaculate lawn . She looked accusingly at me , from the kitchen window , where she busied herself , making tea. "Don't worry , Mrs. Mullick, we will fill it up ." Mrs, Suri called out , her cup of tea , sloshing with excitement , as she winked at me , conspiratorially.
My father got out his gardeners gloves , and grasped the blade . Few others grabbed the narrower base . We heaved and heaved . Mrs. Suri was hysterical -"Careful, careful , you will break it !!"
Then it gave way , suddenly . We were holding a complete , ancient , rusted , sword with clods still stuck to it . It was brushed and washed under the garden tap . There were engravings all over , but too rusted to be deciphered . The grasp or the handle was even elaborate . Carved into what seemed like a lion head , and made of some yellow metal .
"Either brass or gold ." Mrs. Suri , the history enthusiast expounded.
Next day , Dad took it to the Office of Archaeological Society of India.
A receipt was given to us and the sword taken for restoration . We would be told later which era it belonged to and its value , a small percentage of which would be awarded to us .
Next time I visited home , six months' later , my dad took us all out proudly , to see "my sword".
In the enclosure meant for Gupta Era artefacts, it hung on the wall. along with broken pieces of armors, saddles , etc it stood out , polished and clean and whole . 115 cms from tip to rusty tip , 21.32 kgs in weight , with a gold handle , made of solid cast iron , the sword was a masterpiece of the Gupta Era, predating the Mughal Era by nearly 500 years . That made it roughly 1500 years old.
"Whoa !!" Exclaimed my nephew , breath fogging glass-case, nose -pressed ,overwhelmed .
Well , who knew , a piece of rusty junk , at that too!!
Tramping barefoot in the garden , my toes hit a small , sharp edge of a piece of rusty junk. I hastily withdrew my foot , for I could feel the sharp jab . A small drop of blood oozed from the big toe .
“Ouch!” Said I . “Tetanus shot !” was the next thought . I hated tetanus shots. They made dead weight of your arm and gave you a strange taste in the mouth.
I found a hanky in my pyjama pockets , and I pressed it to my wound , cursing the gardener for leaving things around , and myself for having decided to walk barefoot.
I still can't fathom why I decided to uproot that piece of junk . Either it was total lack of purpose, or just plain curiosity ( that eventually let the cat out of the bag) or was it vengeance on that inanimate object that still had the ability to ruin my morning.
At first , I flippantly pulled it up. It refused to budge . Then I brought a trowel from the gardeners shed , and sat down to scraping the grass and soil around it . When it started increasing in dimension , as it became slowly unearthed , it became apparent that this was not an ordinary rusty junk . It was buried deep , and was a flank , or a small protruding tip of some thing immensely exciting . In short , I had been bruised by the "tip of the ice berg."
By now , I had got the household excited too. Someone had put a band aid on my toe , and my dad , the gardener and a few odd curious neighbours ( whom I always denounced as "nosy")had gathered around the rusty , odd looking, curved ,flat blade of sorts . Spades were called in , and the gardener was exhorted by breathless Mrs Suri, in her nightie , "not to hurt "the thing"".People gathered around, a motley crowd of the just awake , gawking , in pyjamas , some held cups of steaming brews in their hands .
The spade got to work , and clods of moist mud with clumps of grass sticking to it , flew everywhere.
After sweating for nearly half an hour , there was two and half foot of a curved blade exposed to the air , and an ugly crater , the size of a manure pit had appeared in the centre of my mother's immaculate lawn . She looked accusingly at me , from the kitchen window , where she busied herself , making tea. "Don't worry , Mrs. Mullick, we will fill it up ." Mrs, Suri called out , her cup of tea , sloshing with excitement , as she winked at me , conspiratorially.
My father got out his gardeners gloves , and grasped the blade . Few others grabbed the narrower base . We heaved and heaved . Mrs. Suri was hysterical -"Careful, careful , you will break it !!"
Then it gave way , suddenly . We were holding a complete , ancient , rusted , sword with clods still stuck to it . It was brushed and washed under the garden tap . There were engravings all over , but too rusted to be deciphered . The grasp or the handle was even elaborate . Carved into what seemed like a lion head , and made of some yellow metal .
"Either brass or gold ." Mrs. Suri , the history enthusiast expounded.
Next day , Dad took it to the Office of Archaeological Society of India.
A receipt was given to us and the sword taken for restoration . We would be told later which era it belonged to and its value , a small percentage of which would be awarded to us .
Next time I visited home , six months' later , my dad took us all out proudly , to see "my sword".
In the enclosure meant for Gupta Era artefacts, it hung on the wall. along with broken pieces of armors, saddles , etc it stood out , polished and clean and whole . 115 cms from tip to rusty tip , 21.32 kgs in weight , with a gold handle , made of solid cast iron , the sword was a masterpiece of the Gupta Era, predating the Mughal Era by nearly 500 years . That made it roughly 1500 years old.
"Whoa !!" Exclaimed my nephew , breath fogging glass-case, nose -pressed ,overwhelmed .
Well , who knew , a piece of rusty junk , at that too!!
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