My village
had changed. It had changed a lot, since the last time I was here almost twenty
years ago. It had changed for good, or worse, I am not sure. But there seemed
to be more people walking around the main street, carrying out their daily day
to day activities since the last time I could remember when I was here as a kid.
Some were rushing towards the other side of the river, walking briskly, or on
their two wheelers. It seemed as if all of a sudden, somebody had stopped time,
and now everyone seemed dazed and confused, and realized how little time they
had, and lots of pending work, which they had to complete before sun down.
Yes, there
were certainly more number of two wheelers on the road, motorcycles and
bicycles. Three wheeled rickshaws and auto rickshaws were also plying on both
sides of the road.
The last time
I was here, I remember I was a kid, probably studying in the first standard. I
had come with my parents to visit our grandfather. That was the last time I had
seen grandfather alive. After his death we rarely ever came to the village.
It must have
been late evening that time. I must have been feeling very sleepy, because I
remember father having to carry me in his hands all the way from where we
parked our car on the other side of the river bank, across the ferry, and then
right up to grandfather’s house. Occasionally I would wake up from my sleep,
open my eyes, take a look around to see where were we, and then go back to
sleep on father’s shoulders.
But I still
clearly remember the sounds, sounds that were breaking the eerie silence of the
village night. The nocturnal insects were all buzzing, warning each other about
the approaching human intrusion. A dog was howling somewhere far away. But
there was no sound of any vehicle, which we were so used to in our city. The
silence was a little frightening, even though comforting.
It had rained
the previous night, and puddles of rain water had collected at several places
on the mud road. Sanju Mama’s (uncle) heavy steel torch was the only
source of light to show us the way.
I opened my eyes a little. We were walking
down a slope now. Pitch darkness ahead. In front of me I could see several
small dots of light moving here and there. Must have been fireflies, but I was
too small at that time to realize what they were. I was hooked. I watched as
the specks of the light kept dancing in front of me, teasing me, inviting me to
enter their world.
As we
descended down the slippery muddy slope, my father kept his firm hold on me
with one hand, and with his other hand, he helped my mother descend the slope
slowly and steadily. Sanju Mama’s torch light also danced down along the
slope, bouncing here and there, till we were at the end of the slope.
Sanju Mama
then raised his hands, cupped them in front of his mouth, and then made a loud
hooting sound. I woke up fully now. I tried to imitate him, and made another
hooting sound. My sound echoed back from the darkness in front of me. I liked
it. I hooted again.
Somebody
hooted back from the darkness ahead. I tried to see through the darkness with
my small eyes. I couldn’t see anything. I hooted again, imitating Sanju Mama.
It was answered back again.
It was then
that I could see a small speck of light, much larger than the fire flies
dancing around me, moving towards us, far away in the darkness. It was floating
towards us, dancing slowly in the darkness. I was a little scared now, and
turned away my eyes. Father, mother and Sanju Mama were talking as if
nothing had happened. Maybe they didn’t see the dancing light, floating towards
us. It could be a ghost !
I tried
warning them, but nobody paid any heed towards me. My father instead tried to
make me go back to sleep on his shoulder. I didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to
warn them. I started crying.
That got my
father’s attention. He tried to silence me. I looked up at the approaching
source of light. It had floated very near to us by now.
It was then
that I heard that voice, that beautiful voice, singing. He was singing a
beautiful local Bengali song. I was star struck. It was the most
beautiful song I had ever heard. I can’t really remember the song now, but it
was about the river, something about it being the fortune bearer for us, our
source of food and good will.
But I still
couldn’t see the face of that beautiful voice. It was pitch dark ahead. The
light was almost near us now.
Then I heard
it, the sound of splashing water as the oars chopped through the water,
rhythmically, backing up the song that he was singing. I saw the boat
approaching. I could see his face now. It was a beautiful face, an old man’s
face, flowing white beard and a gamcha (loin cloth) tied around his
head. He was wearing a chequered blue lungi and a white half sleeved
vest. He had a white skull cap on his head. He must have been aged around sixty,
but he looked quite healthy.
He was no
longer singing. He stopped rowing now, and angled his boat towards us, till it
touched the river bank. A lantern was tied to a post over his head. He got up
slowly, and then greeted Sanju Mama. Sanju Mama said something
back, and introduced the old man with my father and mother. I don’t remember
the conversation, because I was busy looking at his face.
“Come bachcha
(kid), come her”, he said, trying to hold me to help father cross over to the
boat.
“No”, I
cried, wriggling my small hands, trying to resist his old wrinkled hands.
“It’s ok Chacha”,
my father came to my rescue. “He won’t go. I will manage.”
Father
climbed into the boat, while Sanju Mama, helped mother get on the boat
behind us.
We sat down,
and the old man pushed the boat away from the river bank, and pushed us towards
the darkness ahead.
I managed to
steal a peek at him. He wasn’t looking at me. That made me feel safe. I turned
towards him now. He was using his strong hands and was rowing powerfully. He
closed his eyes, and then he started singing again.
He sang the same song, about the river. He
sang about how generous the river was, and gave us our daily bread. But it also
damaged lives when it was in a furious mood.
It was the
most beautiful song that I had ever heard. He sang so freely, and without any
inhibitions, at the top of his voice. He sang as if he didn’t have the
slightest care in this world, as if he had got everything he had ever sought in
this life, as if he had lived the life he had always prayed to God for. It was
the voice of a happy and content man, and it was magical. It was infectious. It
spread comfort and warmth around him.
May God
always bless the man; keep him happy and content like this forever.
I came out of
my childhood dream. Years later, I was back in the same village, this time
during the day. It seemed nothing like the memory I had had of this place for
so many years in my mind.
I had got
down from the bus at the Silchar ISBT stop, hired a taxi to take me to Buribail
village. There was no magic this time, no romanticism in the air, as my taxi
crossed the Barak river over the newly constructed bridge. It was hot
and humid. I was sweating. People around me were too busy to talk to each
other. There were several shops that had opened on both sides of the river,
shops selling hardware, paint, vegetable, meat and poultry, tea shops and
hotels, shops selling SIM cards and top-ups for mobile phones.
It was like I
was in an entirely different place.
I got down
from the car, to ask for directions towards my grand fathers ancestral home.
The house
itself had changed. It was made of bricks and concrete now, far away from the
mud and thatched house that I remembered standing in between the mango and
banyan trees. The pond in front of the house was still there, though it was
much smaller in size now, with concrete steps leading up to it. It was more
like a swimming pool now, rather than the old pond, where me and my sisters had
spent so much time trying to swim and catch fish. I doubt if there were any
fish left in this pond now.
I felt a
little sad, my childhood memories about this place having been shattered. I
hated the development that this place had achieved during the last twenty
years. I wished this place hadn’t developed, and was still the same old place
which smelt of mud and cow dung always. I wished they had never broken down the
old mud hose, and built a concrete house instead. I wished they hadn’t changed
the old pond. I wished they had never got electricity connection here, I wished
there was no mobile phone connectivity here. I wished they never would have got
clean drinking water supply here. I wished they had never built the bridge over
the river.
I got a hold
of myself. What was I thinking? I was being selfish.
Where I
wanted my own city to develop as much as possible, wanted all the modern
facilities and amenities there, I was wishing my village hadn’t developed at
all, and was neglected and stuck with the same age old difficulties that my
grandfather and his peers had faced, just so that I could retain my childhood
memories about this place? That was so selfish of me. Even this place needed
the development and all the modern facilities that it had got.
Come to think of it, I hadn’t even been here
for so many years after grandfather’s death, and had only visited now because
of some formalities that had to be completed about inheritance of the ancestral
property. I had come now because I wanted a piece of my share, a share that was
lawfully mine, but morally I knew I never deserve a share of this land because
I have never ever cared for this place. I was busy making money, living my
comfortable life in my metro city with my wife and children. Like a vulture who
swoops down over a carcass, I had rushed down to this place only when my relatives
were eyeing their shares over this property.
“Why do you
even need a piece of that land?” my wife had asked me. “Let them take it. It’s
not like we are ever going to live there. Let them be happy. Let them take it.
They need it more than we do.”
I had shushed
her, and asked her if she was crazy to let go of a piece of land that could be
worth lakhs now?
Maybe she was
right. Maybe I didn’t need this land. Maybe I didn’t even deserve it.
But what I
wanted was a piece of that dreamland that I had saved in my heart about this place,
the land with the fireflies and the insects chipping in the darkness at night.
I wanted a piece of the land where that magical voice used to sing that
melodious song. I wanted a piece of my childhood memory. Was I so selfish in wanting
that? Was I making my own childhood fantasies to cover my judgment?
I came out of
it. I had to do what I came here for.
I stayed
there for about a week. I completed all the legal formalities that would make
me the legal heir to a piece of the property.
It was a day
before I was supposed to leave from the village.
Maybe I could
give it a try, I thought. Maybe I could find what I actually came looking here
for. At the bottom of my heart I knew it was not a piece of this property that
had forced me here. It was something else. In my heart I knew I had come here
looking for something else.
But I had
forced that thought aside considering it a part of my childhood fantasy.
But maybe I
could still find it if I looked hard.
He was not
difficult to find.
Everyone knew
him. He was the only ferry man that there ever was in this land, as long as
anybody worth their salt here, could remember.
I found out
his name was Dolu. Dolu, the ferryman, that’s how everyone still
remembered him.
He was still
alive. I had to meet him once.
I found out
his tea shop easily. He must have been approaching his nervous nineties now.
I went there
with one my cousin on my last day in the village. He was lying on a cot outside
his shop. A small kid, his grandson probably, was preparing tea behind the
stove.
“Dolu Chacha,
this is my cousin brother. He has come here from the city ” my
cousin introduced me to the old man.
The old man
opened his eyes, and looked up at me. The eyes were old, and weary. His skin
was so wrinkled that even the cotton kurta that I had been wearing since the
last one week, seemed smoother. His hands shook as he shook mine. The face
looked tired and old.
And those
eyes, those sad eyes, they didn’t have the same magic in them that had become
symbolic for me about this place. The content and happy face that I had
remembered was gone now, replaced by the face of an old man who just couldn’t
wait to meet his creator.
I just
couldn’t dare to hear his voice. I was afraid his shaking voice would bring
down my childhood dream.
And it happened.
When he spoke at last, his voice trembled so much that I felt guilty for having
made him to talk. He struggled so much to speak each word, that I felt I should
better leave him alone lying on his cot, let him die in piece.
But I needed
to talk to him.
We started a
normal conversation, about his health and his business.
Then he
started to open up slowly.
“Business? Is
this what you call business?” I could see his eyes flare up.
“Businnes was
what my son Ranju had had at the river bank.”
His eyes
seemed distant now.
“Alhamdulillah,
what a flourishing business he was having in his sweet shop! I used to ferry
people from across the river, and the first thing they would do was to visit
his shop, and buy biscuits or sweets for themselves or their relatives. Every
single person I ferried would stop at his shop, have, if nothing more, a cup of
tea before entering the village. What a team we both were.”
He paused for
a while, as he let his excitement die down, and returned to his present.
“And then
they built this bridge”, he said with a sigh.
We let him
catch his breath before saying anything else.
“This
you call business?” he looked up at me angrily.
“I am not
doing anything here other than lying here all day long. My grandson is killing
flies all day. No one comes here. Why would they come anyway, in this dirty and
fly infested place?” he asked, making me put down the cup of tea I was sipping
from.
“The bridge
killed everything”, he said after a long pause. “It killed my son.”
I was
confused. “Killed your son? How?” I asked.
“After they
built the bridge over the shop, business died down. Nobody would climb down
from the bridge to come down to a sweet shop that was below the bridge, would
they?” he asked himself, rather than us.
“ Ranju
decided to move to Dilli city where he said his friend was doing better
business. But the city killed him. He was a village boy, and couldn’t survive
among you city dwellers. They killed him. Somebody killed him over some money
he owed them. His body was found, lying in the drain the next morning.”
A tear
dropped out of those old weary eyes of the father, as he remembered his son.
“We didn’t
even get to see his body. It was too expensive to get his body here to the
village. Plus it would have taken days to reach here. His friend buried him in Dilli
itself. He sent us Ranju’s belongings by post.”
I was shocked
to hear the old man’s story.
“They said
the bridge would bring money and happiness for everyone. But it has destroyed
us. I curse the day the first man set foot on that bridge”, he continued.
“It has
destroyed many families, not only mine. I have lost my son, and my boat. A lot
of people have lost many things too. Earlier you used to get good grooms for
your daughters here itself in the village. People used to marry within the
village itself. If there ever came a rishta from the other side
of the river, people used to decline those offers, because it was difficult for
families to send their daughters across the river. Boys on the other side of
the river are evil. They drink, and smoke dirty stuff, their language is
filthy, they don’t respect their elders. Our boys were never like that. They
were nice and good mannered. Now after they built the bridge, marriages are
happening across the river. I told them not to get their daughters married
across the river. But who listens to me nowadays? They laughed at me. They said
the bridge had joined both sides, and had opened up the world for us. But our
daughters never came back.”
“Why, the
other day we got news that Usman’s daughter has been divorced. These
things would have never happened if they had married on this side of the
river.”
I could not
really understand the old man’s logic, but I could clearly see that he was blaming
the bridge for everything.
“But Chacha,
the bridge also brought development to your village?” I asked nervously.
“What
development?” he asked angrily.
“You call this
development? They destroyed the village. They have made it like the city now.
The people have also become like the city dwellers now. They cheat you off your
money, lie to you in your face, they don’t respect their elders. They use foul
language. Our people have even started drinking nowadays.”
“Earlier a
bicycle was enough for everyone to ply through the village. Now they have
started bringing auto rickshaws. Some have even bought cars.”
“But isn’t
that a good thing Chacha?” I asked again.
“You won’t be
able to understand it son”, he said sadly.
“For you
money is everything. Earlier there used to be peace on this land. We were poor
and un-developed, but we were happy and content. People used to know each
other, they used to talk to each other. Every person attended everyone’s
marriage ceremony. Nobody ever locked their doors. They trusted each other. If
a child was born, every house used to get the news and we would celebrate it
together. Now people have money, but they do not talk to each other. Even if
they do, they get into fights with each other. Everyone thinks evil of the
other. We were never like this. My songs used to calm down every weary soul who
used to come from the other side of the river. Now I don’t even sing anymore”
I was
starting to understand his problem now.
“The price of
our land has increased now. People are selling their land, and going off to the
city. Greedy city people are coming here to buy our land. They are destroying
our land, polluting our people.”
“Why, have
you also come here to buy our land, son?” he looked up suspiciously at me.
I didn’t
answer him. He was right. I was the ‘greedy city dweller’ who had come here now
because the land value had increased. I am the selfish person who never had
even cared about this place. Now I have come here to claim a piece of my
grandfather’s flesh, so that I could sell it for a higher price later on, and
buy an apartment in the city with that money. I never had any plans to settle
down here. I was just using this village as a source of money.
“Please don’t
bring any more filth here than there already is. Please, I beg you”, said the
old man joining his hands in request to me.
“Leave our
people alone. Let us die in peace”.
I had nothing
else to say. I took my leave from him, and left the old man in his misery.
I called up
my wife.
“Honey, do we
really need an apartment in the city?” I asked her.
“Not really.
We are happy where we stay. Why do you ask?”
That was what
I was really hoping she would say.
I smiled at
myself.
“Nothing.
This place is not as good as I expected it to be.”
“When are you
coming back?” she asked.
“In a day or
two I replied”, and disconnected the call.
I was
crossing the bridge again, leaving the old man’s village, going back into my
own evil world, filled up with selfish people. May the old man find his peace.
May he die peacefully. I have done my part. I have found my peace, now it’s up
to the old man and his god-forsaken village to find theirs.
May the magic
return to their land. May the old man find his song.
---Concluded---
