Earliest memories are that of a village.
Not any village, my village,the village.
Some where in the forgotten corner of Bihar, tucked away beyond the snoopiness of world at large, far, far away, beyond the sea of green rice fields, lies my village ( or what it used to be ). You don't have to sit in H.G.Wells' contraption to time-travel.All you have to do is to reach there, and you will have left centuries behind you.
People here dress and behave the same way they had, probably , in the Mauryan period. Men wear dhotis, dirtied from working in the fields, women saris, with a mandatory' ghoonghat'(veil), children run amok, naked, lawless, till their genitals grow large enough to attract undue attention, when they begin to be clothed.
Child marriages are rampant, womenfolk take care of the home and hearth, men work in the fields. Some of them are adventurous enough to try something out of the mundane,and catch a train to faraway provinces to earn money.
The landowner gets to live off the fields, cattle, poultry, a measly sum of which is doled to the rest of the populace. Women have difficult childbirths, and numerous too. The nearest doctor lives twenty or more kilometres ( and fifty rupees in bus-fares) away, hence , is unaffordable. Whatever treatment is meted out by' dais'(midwives)and quacks is meagre and dangerous.
There are no Pucca roads leading to or from the village. A dirt packed road (long-route, a precariously thin and muddy path between the fields was a shorter version; but one has to hitch up one's trouser/salwar legs, and spread one's arms; Titanic fashion , to keep from toppling over, one way or the other,into sloshy froggy/fishy damp -boggy fields. Forget about carrying your bags!!) leads to the river -bank ( in spate for six months in a year) ,cross the river (at the peril of your life-the river bed being, rocky and shallow, dangerous rapids overtake you from nowhere),trek for another five odd kilometres , till you come to a dangerous uphill climb( here the bullock-cart will have to be abandoned-as the cart will slide back, precariously), a small temple and a bus stop. You wait there for ages, swatting flies, and being an unwilling listener to the village gossip, recounted by a garrulous dwarfish priest , till a perilously tilting and overloaded bus stops for you, and whisks you away to civilization,groaning under all that human weight.
But this miserable little place was my home for the first one and a half decade of my life .
It was love, warmth,cosy togetherness, and caring kindness all put together.
It was also an eye-opener in ways more than one. Far away from the modern world, if one stumbled across a Span or Life magazine , or an Illustrated Weekly of India, Dharmayug, however old or yellowed it might be, it would spark an immediate war for possession, amongst all the siblings, one which my brother always won, as , he was , you know. the son. And the son was always backed by everyone( all adults). Another lesson in the unfairness of life, an unforgettable one.
Sun-washed , cow dung coated courtyard , crisp mornings. (The cow dung dries , like plaster, and leaves a pleasant grassy smell if it is fresh, if it is stale,God forbid the odor!!)
Cool concrete floors, sumptuous meals, electric fans , caring elders and a serious attempt at good education.We had lot of things, which was denied to many other people in our vicinity.We were born, so to speak, with the proverbial brass spoon in the mouth(if not the silver). Yes, I have eaten out of brass and bronze plates. Part of my grandmother's and mother's dowry, one discovered quickly that if you do not polish off curd, or any food item containing tamarind/lemon juice,fast enough; the food mass starts turning green at the edges ( formation of copper salts from the copper in the plate; we learnt later),which, trust me, tastes real funny.
Primarily agrarian occupation and bucolic kind of an existence; it was as far away from the madding crowd as you please, a tad bit too far , I guess.
During the first year of my life , I am told, there was a cholera epidemic in the village. People died like flies. Health officials came in 'motors', masked and armed with DDT sprayers. They sprayed some, talked some , and counted the dead and dying, and left hastily; as they are wont to.
Some of our cattle died too. Whether due to cholera or and unrelated disease , is debatable.
My elder sister is a trifle over zealous , in so far as religion is concerned She once poked an infant me in the eye with the stick end of a burning agarbatti , in the process of propitiating the gods for my well-being .She has this story to tell of me having fallen sick too, during the epidemic. Coincidentally, a favourite cow (black) too fell sick around the same time , with similar symptoms(fever, stomach-upset). And my sister prayed to the Gods , that I may be spared, and that "Kaali"(the cow) may be taken , in exchange, if death God(Yama) so desired. Her wish was fulfilled. The cow died and I lived (with tremendous bovine guilt).
Not any village, my village,the village.
Some where in the forgotten corner of Bihar, tucked away beyond the snoopiness of world at large, far, far away, beyond the sea of green rice fields, lies my village ( or what it used to be ). You don't have to sit in H.G.Wells' contraption to time-travel.All you have to do is to reach there, and you will have left centuries behind you.
People here dress and behave the same way they had, probably , in the Mauryan period. Men wear dhotis, dirtied from working in the fields, women saris, with a mandatory' ghoonghat'(veil), children run amok, naked, lawless, till their genitals grow large enough to attract undue attention, when they begin to be clothed.
Child marriages are rampant, womenfolk take care of the home and hearth, men work in the fields. Some of them are adventurous enough to try something out of the mundane,and catch a train to faraway provinces to earn money.
The landowner gets to live off the fields, cattle, poultry, a measly sum of which is doled to the rest of the populace. Women have difficult childbirths, and numerous too. The nearest doctor lives twenty or more kilometres ( and fifty rupees in bus-fares) away, hence , is unaffordable. Whatever treatment is meted out by' dais'(midwives)and quacks is meagre and dangerous.
There are no Pucca roads leading to or from the village. A dirt packed road (long-route, a precariously thin and muddy path between the fields was a shorter version; but one has to hitch up one's trouser/salwar legs, and spread one's arms; Titanic fashion , to keep from toppling over, one way or the other,into sloshy froggy/fishy damp -boggy fields. Forget about carrying your bags!!) leads to the river -bank ( in spate for six months in a year) ,cross the river (at the peril of your life-the river bed being, rocky and shallow, dangerous rapids overtake you from nowhere),trek for another five odd kilometres , till you come to a dangerous uphill climb( here the bullock-cart will have to be abandoned-as the cart will slide back, precariously), a small temple and a bus stop. You wait there for ages, swatting flies, and being an unwilling listener to the village gossip, recounted by a garrulous dwarfish priest , till a perilously tilting and overloaded bus stops for you, and whisks you away to civilization,groaning under all that human weight.
But this miserable little place was my home for the first one and a half decade of my life .
It was love, warmth,cosy togetherness, and caring kindness all put together.
It was also an eye-opener in ways more than one. Far away from the modern world, if one stumbled across a Span or Life magazine , or an Illustrated Weekly of India, Dharmayug, however old or yellowed it might be, it would spark an immediate war for possession, amongst all the siblings, one which my brother always won, as , he was , you know. the son. And the son was always backed by everyone( all adults). Another lesson in the unfairness of life, an unforgettable one.
Sun-washed , cow dung coated courtyard , crisp mornings. (The cow dung dries , like plaster, and leaves a pleasant grassy smell if it is fresh, if it is stale,God forbid the odor!!)
Cool concrete floors, sumptuous meals, electric fans , caring elders and a serious attempt at good education.We had lot of things, which was denied to many other people in our vicinity.We were born, so to speak, with the proverbial brass spoon in the mouth(if not the silver). Yes, I have eaten out of brass and bronze plates. Part of my grandmother's and mother's dowry, one discovered quickly that if you do not polish off curd, or any food item containing tamarind/lemon juice,fast enough; the food mass starts turning green at the edges ( formation of copper salts from the copper in the plate; we learnt later),which, trust me, tastes real funny.
Primarily agrarian occupation and bucolic kind of an existence; it was as far away from the madding crowd as you please, a tad bit too far , I guess.
During the first year of my life , I am told, there was a cholera epidemic in the village. People died like flies. Health officials came in 'motors', masked and armed with DDT sprayers. They sprayed some, talked some , and counted the dead and dying, and left hastily; as they are wont to.
Some of our cattle died too. Whether due to cholera or and unrelated disease , is debatable.
My elder sister is a trifle over zealous , in so far as religion is concerned She once poked an infant me in the eye with the stick end of a burning agarbatti , in the process of propitiating the gods for my well-being .She has this story to tell of me having fallen sick too, during the epidemic. Coincidentally, a favourite cow (black) too fell sick around the same time , with similar symptoms(fever, stomach-upset). And my sister prayed to the Gods , that I may be spared, and that "Kaali"(the cow) may be taken , in exchange, if death God(Yama) so desired. Her wish was fulfilled. The cow died and I lived (with tremendous bovine guilt).
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