The
sun was trying desperately to peep through the haze. It was a cold foggy
January morning.
We had just arrived
at Mirzacheuki, the station closest to our village Pakaria that lay a couple of
kilometers away to the west.
This was my first
visit to my village in almost a decade and the main purpose was to introduce my
wife and children to the place where I had spent a good part of my childhood
and to which they were now connected. For my children, who had spent time
mainly in Calcutta, it was a world to the likes of which they had never been
exposed,.
Miles on miles of
fields, cold, fresh, unadulterated air, the smell of damp grass, the Rajmahal
hills in whatever direction you turned your gaze, a quaint little station - it
was a new and exhilarating experience for them.
While I usually
walked the two kilometers to the village, I opted to hire the only cycle
rickshaw owing to the luggage and because I felt that the walk would be
difficult to manage, the children being only four and ten years old.
They piled on to the
rickshaw and I preferred to walk alongside as we set off on the road to
Pakaria. I knew that on both sides of the road would be fields of sugarcane and
there would be small clearings at short distances for storing the cane and
juice collection since the crop was ready. At these clearings, there would also
be a fire oven with a huge pan (almost six feet in diameter) for preparing the
“gur" or jaggery.
The times were simple
and the farmers would offer samples of hot viscous “gur” straight from the pan by sticking stubs of sugarcane into the
thick boiling viscous liquid, rather like a candy!
All this would be
gratis!
Our first stop would
be at the tea-shop of Bhasawan near the railway crossing. The Shop would come
into business at about four in the morning before the first train arrived and
would close late at night at whatever time the last train left. Since trains
were often late, the closing time was uncertain.
When we arrived at
the shop, the oven had been already going for more than a few hours and the hut
was warm and cozy. Bhasawan served sweet, hot tea for us and “rasgullas” (soft balls of cottage cheese
dipped in sugar syrup) for the children. These “rasgullas” were not the sophisticated variety of the cities but
really sweet and delicate so that they would break off just as you lifted them
to your mouth. One had to be careful!
After we warmed up,
we started for the village. The road, which had been asphalted in the early
60's, was all but gone! The top layer had long gone and even the base had lost
its fight with the passage of time – only the boulders, which reinforced the
base, remained. The rickshaw puller could only get down and pull it since it
was too difficult to cycle, there being virtually no flat surface. I,
therefore, had no difficulty in keeping up.
A few meters down the
road, an old farmer hailed us. Seeing children from the city, he was asking
them to come and taste his “gur”. My
daughter was all smiles mainly because of the Bhojpuri (a local dialect used in
Bihar) that he used. My children spoke Bhojpuri with my wife and in-laws, Hindi
with me, Bengali with their friends and English in the school. Her Bhojpuri was
limited to our home in Calcutta but here everyone spoke the language. My son
was too awed by all this to say anything.
As we proceeded down
the road, many memories came flooding; one that is related in this story and
others that will, maybe, result in more stories!
This road had seen many
years and was the repository of many anecdotes.
It took us an hour to
cover the two kilometers. Had I been alone, I would have walked through the
fields since it would have been faster and more comfortable. When we arrived at
Pakaria, a new set of events started, but that will be recounted some other
time.
............................................................................................
The earliest story
associated with the road relates to well before my birth. It had become part of
folklore in the village and even my father was witness to it when he was a mere
child.
Weddings were major
events in villages. Individuals were not invited to the festivities; villages
were. The invitation was sent to the “Sarpanch” (Headman) and the whole village
was expected to turn up! It was quite common for around a thousand people to
turn up from all the surrounding areas and the number would have been higher
had the womenfolk also joined in.
However since
travelling was not easy, especially in the dark, women from the only the host
village attended. The fare offered was simple but it was an occasion to
socialize and also served the purpose of thawing cold ties between families. It
was common for the entire village to contribute grains, oil, sugar and many
other things to the host to ease his burden.
This
sort of a social structure is unfortunately breaking up fast.
So the men folk of my
village were getting ready to attend a wedding ceremony in a neighboring
village about five kilometers away. The whitest “dhotis” and the best “Kurtas”
(with “gehla") brought out. Gehla was a technique used by washer men to
crumple up sleeves of Kurtas to add style!
Three bullock carts
were prepared for the older men and the smaller kids. Others would walk.
Lanterns were readied with glass covers being cleaned and oil topped up, for it
would be pitch dark by the time they returned.
A
party of sixty people started at around five in the evening and reached the
host village an hour later.
By the time the
return journey started after the festivities, it was well past ten in the
night. The road to Pakaria, which was nothing more than a dirt track then, was
pitch-dark. The lanterns cast a faint glow barely allowing enough light to
prevent straying from the dirt path.
The group of people was
in a good mood and there were discussions on what went well and what did not.
Some children fell asleep on the carts and some of the older gents were a bit
drowsy, thankful that their age allowed them the luxury of the bullock cart.
About three miles out
in the middle of the journey, most had fallen quiet. Only the sound of the
bells, around the bullock’s neck, broke the silence. As the party prodded on,
they met with a villager with a lantern, returning home after ensuring proper
alignment of the water channels for his fields.
As
soon as he saw the party, he shouted across- “Dekh ke jaiha log, paank baa!" (Be careful ahead, it is
slushy!)
This
friendly warning created a great flutter in the party!
Suddenly, people were
running helter-skelter, the carts were abandoned, even the elderly displayed
speeds that none had suspected them to possess!
The Good Samaritan
was taken aback for a moment, but soon recovered his wits and repeatedly
shouted behind the panic-stricken party- “Arre
bhai, paank baa, paank!” (People, it is slushy, only slushy! ).
Finally,
someone noticed what the man was trying to say and stopped.
Magically
everyone stopped or slowed down.
Alas!
Sense returned, only too late.
Apparently, some of
the party had mistaken the call as –“Dekh
ke jaiha log, Baagh baa"
(Be careful folks, there is a tiger ahead).
The
Good Samaritan’s intent of warning people about the slush and mud had come to naught!
The panic-stricken party,
in their hurry to protect themselves from the “tiger”, was already covered in
mud and out of breath as a bonus.
They
slowly trudged back to the carts all dirty and disheveled!
Then
the hunt for the villain who had started the panic and confusion began!!!!!!
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