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| Late Sri Jagat Senapati the hero of the story. It was the last summer evening in his earthen house, the thatched roof, the all around ventilator in form of a gap between the wall and the bamboo frame that bore the hay covering over it. There was over used Sal timbers to support the bamboo frame, the khuntas, senis, baragas, dantias, kandas, ruas, oras, central pillar and all supporting named woods to which Jagat was intensely looking at. The peripheral boundary of the frame, long rails of palm wood with a rectangular cross section he once polished and decorated in his own hand when the house was constructed some five decades back. He was a young man of twenty odd years. It was time consuming but satisfied his artistic imagination and crafty hand works. |
Last summer evening!
Summer was not bidding fare-well or he was not leaving this
world at his approaching eighties. The villagers were being displaced to give
their land for national interest through private corporate houses, to make the industrial city of Madhubana. He left his long chair which we could say a bench as well. He at times used this as his bed too. This was his meeting place, where he used to draw someone going on the road and ask his
daily affairs. From this chair he went to give alms to the many number of
beggars visiting from morning to late afternoon on those days of poverty.
He went inside.
It was the in outside rather. The central open space of the khanjaghara around
which all living rooms existed, the room of the elder son, younger son, of his
own, for the guest, for the kids, the place to sit and play cards, the corner
to churn curd to bring out the cream out of butter milk, the pillar dedicated
to maa Mangala the presiding deity of the house, the store
house of special make to keep rice grains, the sathighars those were clay designs figured out on walls on the sixth day function of birth
of a child. He always designed for children and grand children, he felt
nostalgic to look at these. Sad they would leave all. The white skeletons of
small sea animals kaudies fixed on these designs used to smile
on earlier days looked very dull today, these were grimacing sarcastically. He
gazed at the starry sky right from the central open space. The sky he no more would see in this way from tomorrow, he felt sad as if a girl going permanently
to the in law's house. Here the difference was once they left they
would never return inside crossing the chain of securities of the industrial companies.
He got a big acid eructation his
old disease. He called aloud - maa Laxmi! His daughter in law, whom
he always addressed as mother of wealth, immediately prepared warm water, a
piece of lemon and the baking soda that the old father in law required to
relieve the pain of the acid.
He blessed her.
It was time for his prayer; his prayer was
simple, kneeling down on outer veranda with both forelegs and forearms resting
on ground. He would touch his head on ground once each for every member of the house
praying to overcome a particular problem or ailment which he felt was
troublesome. He uttered his prayer with such a loud whisper that one would
easily record it on a tape. It looked funny to his grand children, his repeated
raising and lowering of head to touch the ground they chided as if a cock was
picking grains from ground or Karimchacha was on Namz. Today's prayer was his
last in this place. It, as usual lasted for forty-five minutes.
Jagat, when giving alms to
the beggars in the day chatted with them; industries were for all good to
alleviate poverty, beggary would not remain any more. All should be covered by
beneficial schemes, what so if people lost their lands and houses.
He spoke so but had doubt, what actually he would feel
the next day leaving everything including his long memories of the village, its
picturesque ambiance, and the attachment of the native soil. But he
always was on the side of development, he discouraged the anti
displacement movements. He remembered his youth, how the village youth had to
leave the place in the spring after the harvesting was over to work in the
umbrella manufacturing industries of Kalikata (Kolkata) the
great city of joy. They returned finishing the maximum need of the industries
before monsoon reached their village on the festival of Raja the
fourteenth of June. Henceforth, people of other states would come to
Madhubana to raise their earning, Jagat felt proud of it, he always blessed the
powerful politicians of the area with his pro development mind, unknowingly
serving the purpose of the league between the party in power and the
industries. The old man although was not a direct freedom fighter but like many
of the era of freedom movement was sure one’s own benefit should be sacrificed
for nation’s benefit. He sincerely thought the present league was nothing less
than that of the association between Mahatma and Jamunalal Bajaj. He was a
literate man to understand that much but too illiterate to get the points
raised by the anti displacement minded people. However all loved this simple
man who never forgot to end his daily morning and evening prayer with smaste
shantire ruhantu (all maybe blessed peace and happiness). No one dragged
him into any controversy.
He, for last fifteen years was remaining in ill health,
there was no disease as such excepting the acidity that he always controlled
with his hand made lemon soda but he turned very thin rather a man of skeleton,
he was not going to agricultural fields or any work which he thought was worthy
for family economy. For several years he thought and expressed that he was a load to the
house. He had consumed more than his life time earnings. He told what he
felt, not being angry on him or to please and beg sympathy from his children. He did not value his
time spent with grand children, teaching them, telling stories. He never
considered these as productive work which he did with most efficiency. There
was no preschool facility in the village, the children of neighbours also got
the benefit of his method of starting a beginner’s rudimentary education. He
told several stories about the city of Kolkata, its people, the staying
difficulties of the labourers, the zoo, Ramkrishna-mission, Vivekananda,
Kalighat.
When he got an older listener he narrated the misery
and underestimation with which, the Odias worked there. He narrated with
mastery as if he still stayed there and he never wanted the younger generation
to do that. He believed, their leaving the village would do an end to that.
Now people from other places would come to his village
for labour, he was overwhelmed thinking it over and over again.
He was very
crafty, so fine in doing work that his jute made thread was thin enough to be
used to fly a kite. Throughout the day his routine was to prepare bamboo
products, instruments to catch fish, prepare ropes for agricultural use, and
produce mats from different fibres. He sewed Kanthas out of
old clothes those were to be used as cushion sheets or as blankets. All crafts
he did with superb finish. After all, he was awarded the most skilled worker in
his Kolkata days, he was promoted to be a sardar. All the villagers
brought their raw crafts of rope or bamboo or anything else for his final touch
which he did out of passion free of cost. He prepared the mehidaudi, the
rope used for tying nine bullocks those walked around a pole to crush and harvest
rice grains out of the dry plants piled on the open space around that pole. All
wanted him to prepare that rope for them that would last for a generation.
His work stopped intermittently. Whenever a
beggar was seen, he got up and from a small bamboo bowel he offered them alms
with love, respecting the dignity of the beggar. So many of them came on those
days, he knew all of them by name and on which day was their turn. He could
know any missing beggar in a week. He became worried for the person’s health or
any other issue, asked others about the matter. He waited to see the person
next week. He chatted with them in equal terms, as if they are friends; it was
so natural to a simple man like him.
If a crow
crowed repeatedly he felt a letter from one of his two grandsons serving in
Indian army was coming, he fed the crow. He was the man to receive and read the
letters first.
He believed these were routine work of an old man and
no big thing. He never succeeded to overcome his internal feeling that he was a
useless load to his children’s property. He for last so many years detached himself
from saying; he was the owner of the house. He was happy to repeat, his sons
were able and his daughters in law were Goddess of wealth.
He essentially was the most ideal old man to anyone’s
imagination. Not a single person in the village had to tell anything against
him, all loved him.
Now he favoured displacement, not at all a small help to the
pro-displacement drive.
He went to pujaghara (room of
worship) and searched his Kothali in which he kept the sacred
beads, the small Bhagwat Gita and a few other things that every old man needed
to offer prayer in the day, after taking his bath just before the lunch time.
He made a parcel of all he wanted to take to the colony of RCC houses where
they were to be shifted the next day. He felt a lump in throat with the idea of
leaving the village, the one who motivated the villagers to help the
authorities for the last several months of pro and anti development tension.
He looked heavy while he saw all the members were busy
in packing.
No one saw him as he went to the cow shade. The
big shade looked deserted as all the six bullocks were already disposed. What
was their need when the land was gone? He saw the two cows looked at him
differently, did the animals take account of the situation, he was not sure it
was true or his own mayhem! He always wore a saffron cloth a big gamuchha of Khurda handloom
make, five cubits long and there was another on his shoulder half of its
length. There was a thick black thread around his neck, for unknown reason all
old people kept one such thread if he was not of that upper caste who wore a
sacred yajnya upabita. He badly wanted to feed the cows. Went
to the outskirt from where he brought two logs of hay and fed the cows as if he
was doing it for the first time in his life. With his tender touch the cows
started blowing a hamma, and with their animal instinct they started urinating
both at a time. Jagat’s cloth was soiled, he was unmindful. He patted the cows
and uttered, ‘badmash’.
This gave him a plea to visit majestic pond of the
village, ‘Kastura’ to wash the cloth. It was now dark, not exactly dark as the benevolent
moon though a bit gloomy bestowed its cold glows. There was no one around Kastura
whose embankments had thirteen huge pipal or banyan trees; all were with thick
leaves of the bygone spring. He once again looked to all directions; being sure
of no one watching, he stepped down into Kastura. He forgot he was not in a
habit of bathing at this hour. He normally never bathed without massaging
mustard oil on his body. He forgot he was running with flu, he forgot what his
children and grand children should feel seeing he wet at this hour. He was a
kid at that time, the kid that rattled this pond, played with friends for hours
in its water, fished from its body, watered his plants from this source, fixed
swings on the branch of the big pipal tree in every Rajaparba (monsoon
festival), Not the ordinary swing but the boat swing that carried four people
at a time, made a huge ark as the branch so high.
Kastura the life line of his village for years, what
would be its fate in the hand of the industry, Jagat exclaimed. He became very
emotional about the pond. He forgot his age and started swimming, amazed to see
him capable. In the summer evening it was so enjoying. He was a little shy. Did
anyone see him; he was for a long time in water. Children must be searching
him. He saw Harekrishna his third grandson standing on the bank and watching
him in astonishment. He felt nervous but he suddenly imagined his grandson
wanted to play with him. He called him and promised not to tell his father, now
they played inside the pond, completely disoriented as regards to time space
and person. On the opposite side somebody came with a torch light that made
them stop their play.
Next day so
many trucks reached the village, shifting started and went on. With every
loaded truck passing away, the village lost its village hood, and by evening it
was completely lost, deep into the past, nobody knew for how many years it
existed.
There stood the priest in the temple to do his last
offering, the evening Arati. The last batch of people were
playing all sorts of musical instruments, singing all prayers they knew the
most emotional tearful devotion for the last time, and once in their life time.
The representative of the corporate, the pro displacement leader of the village
and the self proclaimed two atheists were also seen weeping. This went on till
late into the evening when the driver of the last truck was ready to take all
of the belongings of the temple and with that the village ceased to exist.
The greenery of the village stood like the ghosts. Now
they are destitute, with masters and servers gone away. The birds at a time
they should rest in the nest were chirping unusual for reasons best known to
them.
Why should the writer name the village that
died in a single day not out of any physical calamity or a riot but for the
development of the nation through a corporate only? The soul of the
village, there was no possibility could be shifted to the new colony.
The colony was a new area shines any tree or pond, the
company had done beautiful buildings all planned for a modern living. Jagat saw
his two sons had two separate houses and he also had one. He exclaimed! Why you
did not build a single big house? No one had an answer, they did not work it
out where to cook for all or there would be separate kitchen, no one had any
clue. Jagat who dissociated himself from house hold matters for long years
spoke nothing. After the death of his wife he was just a living respected and
loved member with no role to play except his crafts, socializing with ordinary
people, and prayers. He searched a pujaghar, a veranda from which he can give
alms to beggars, the two cows, the bamboos, his instruments and tools, ropes
and so on. There was no such agenda in company’s scheme or government
provision. A man who was a cultivator now went to work in the plant as per his
skill. What was his skill? Only he was suitable to be a labourer.
The money they got soon was spent in rocket speed.
They were not in a habit to handle large money. There were several answers to
the situation. No one cared it much. They had lost their strength that always
came from the earth under their feet. That earth they lost with their lost
village. This new colony was concrete everywhere would never be a substitute of
their village. They were not made prepared to the new situation, the required
education, alternate ways to earn, judicious spending, land against land,
Indian joint family requirement and so on. All these things were running in the
mind of the elder son of Jagat. Like his father he also consoled himself that
for national interest one should sacrifice.
Those who sacrificed were now tagged as beneficiaries,
this pained him. The donor is the beneficiary and the receiver is a philanthropist,
giving money, job and some more help, so funny. Was it benefit enough, was it
security enough to replace the mother’s lap, to replace the unending renewable
source of employment for generation after generation? A helpless person prays
for help, why should they become helpless in the first place. He was not
talking about himself because his two sons were employed in Indian army, he
spoke this in general.
Both his sons returned home from the armed forces on
their annual two months leave, they saw their grandfather as a real old man
sitting idle, no work, and no facility for his crafts. The useful man who
always felt himself as useless shouted, “Bring my tools, bring me jute, bring
me my dhira , I will prepare thread , my grandsons have
returned, they should make kites to fly”. He went on repeating. The two grandsons
felt something abnormal; the old man was in a spell of delirium, he was running
with high fever and the company sent the ambulance to shift him to hospital.
No hope, the doctor whispered. He waited his two
grandson’s arrival to bid this world farewell, forever, otherwise he was dead
the day he left his village the name of which was already dead.
Jagat was taken to Puri Swargdwar the
sacred crematorium of the state not that anybody wanted it or he had wished it
but that in the new colony land for crematorium was not yet demarcated!
