A gang of village urchins was not
gazing now at a flock of wild parrots or some scampering forest rabbits for
they blinked their eyes, scratched their chins, crooked their brows, bit
their parched lips and suppressed their juvenile laughter since the
spectacle ahead was no less than a bizarre one. They saw a middle-aged man,
a spade in one hand and an earthen pitcher in the other was scrupulously
looking for something on the hard, arid land— a graveyard of the verdant
riverside. The dry, brownish-yellow, lifeless patches of grass were
witnessing man's greed to scoop out the wealth— a great treasure of nature
that had once nourished the bandit-humanity as her own sons and daughters.
"What's he up to?" they muttered,
their bewildered eyes sticking to the so-called strange man. And, one of
them spoke out, "Ho…what'll you do with this?" They pointed at the man's
spade and, moreover, at the earthen pitcher looking so out of place.
The man threw a glance at them and
answered before long, "Boys, I'm searching for a softer and wetter patch of
land here, so that I can dig out some water of this river for Baltu, my
little grandson."
"River!" one of them said brusquely.
"It's gone...dead. Look at that." The boy lifted his hand to point at an
enormous concrete structure, a barrage under construction emanating
thunderous and deafening sounds. Its long row of divide walls and
sluicegates as though mocking at the humanity witnessing how peace could be
overpowered by the cruelest of weapon---high-tech machineries.
"I know," the man with spade rued on,
"this's an infiltration into our peaceful life. It'll kill us. We have been
robbed of Phulee's fresh, sweet water. We have been robbed of the lush green
vegetation of this place and there're no birds, chameleons, rabbits and
patches of green grass...a deliberate infiltration." The man gave vent to
what his heart and soul propelled him to do.
The hot, engulfing sun of May always
ensued a very familiar but an untold misery for the village folk. Even for
trickles of this sweet water they
invested their last limit of muscular effort to dig the sandbank of the
river Phulee or most often trudged their way even for saline water to
Bikrampur, the neighbouring village almost five kilometers away the exact
way a caravan of camel traverses the expanse of dreary landscape in search
of the survival resources. The folks needed water— to keep their gullets
supple and stomachs tenantable for the would-be digested food particles.
Chaitanyapur was deprived of any suitable water supply. Some threw their
accusations on the Gram Pradhan (the village headman),
Batakrishna of embezzlement. An open secret as it was that all his
glory, say a brand-new Scorpio, newly built two storied mansion in the city,
Gobindopur, ten kilometers away from the village and the dazzling gold chain
and a ring studded with a sparkling diamond were the results of the man's
levity to his duty. The village folk witnessed how the Pradhan
sitting in his cosy mattress smirked, rubbed his hands, puffed his hookah in
a luxurious fashion and looked at the complainant as mysteriously as the
later had thought his case to be. A bundle or two of a hundred-rupee-notes,
if promptly put forth, the matter would never be found itself in a
courtroom. Such a nightmare must better be avoided rather than becoming
publicly known and, later be harassed. Consequently, the Pradhan was
complied with. Things went on like this. Lives—countable or uncountable went
on like this.
***
Old Kalicharan in a supreme mood to
relish his hookah did never ever care for his intermittent cough that would
resonate in the yard. It often brought his six-year-old grandson Nondu who
either in innocence or in a childish whim asked, "Dadu, how do you do this?"
"Boy," the old man replied looking at
his eyes trying hard to judge the little one's puckish countenance, "for
long I've been drinking but this rubbish saline water. It infected my
throat. So I'm coughing and you're hearing such a sound."
"Stop this rubbish!" hollered the
mother of the boy, Lajbanti, in her thirties, a broom dangling under her
arm, her dupatta tied round her waist. "Stop puffing it and your cough will
vanish."
"No," the old man released a trail of
white smoke into the air and looking straight at it spiraling upward
remarked, "this hookah is my close companion for decades. It's no trouble!
Only Phulee's clear sweet water can cure my ailment. It's years since we had
drunk her water...Mother, Mother she is! The nectar of the heaven." He
coughed once more.
Mohonlal, a thin, lithe man in his
late forties barged into the yard. He strode up to the old man and butted
in, "It's been three years since we all had drunk the water of Phulee. Now
it's turned into muck where only wild pigs are found wallowing, and, it's
only because of their new project."
"I know...I know," reposted the
listener, "you’ve given your flesh and blood but to keep them alive we need
water…fresh, sweet water. When you had swum and bathed into the river in
your young days, did you ever think that your eyes would witness such a day?
My village has lost the smell of her soil."
Three years ago village Chaitanyapur
would boast of a lush green vegetation flanked by the shimmering and wavy
sand dunes of river Phulee. The river would generously feed the village
folks. Haroon, Nalia, Rakhal with their whole tribe set sail across the
river, spreading their fishing nets and habitually witnessing their eyes
with silver-gleaming, leaping fishes—a means of their survival. Their women
collected crabs and snails to sell them in the village weekly market that
could help them ward off the pangs of hunger and usher a substantial
happiness. Then one day this happened what the villagers thought must not to
have—an infiltration to their very peaceful and the secured life. The
village Pradhan had his drum beaten one day at the place they
called Ghanta Ghaar (the Bell Tower-House), a giant iron bell hung on
top of a very old, moss layered watch-tower made of bricks at the village
square which was on its last legs. Still the surviving old men of
Chaitanyapur narrated with their ever-alacritous tongues the amazing stories
of a good English officer, Hamilton Saheb, who by dint of his gracious and
kind nature, had that iron bell installed there to warn the village folks
against the threatening monsoon flood. A man deployed on the watch-tower
would chime the bell when river Phulee swelled up to her brim. The place was
also the vantage point with four main roads leading to the neighbouring
villages and towns along with crowds' ears and eyes in the converging market
place. The drummer announced, "Do keep your ears to my words that as a part
of government's project Chaitanyapur village panchayat has decided to help
build a dam to start off a new hydroelectricity project. Now Chaitanyapur is
going a step ahead to prosperity."
Some tea-sipping youth, eyes full of
dream at the village tea-stalls were found remarking, “Now we've a hope to
get some positions there..."
Another would quickly cut him off
with a note of exclamation, “Yes, certainly...if you're one of the kins of
Pradhan! Real prosperity will be visible soon. My cousin recently got
an employment in the revenue department and could make his through because
of Pradhan’s recommendation letter." The prompt listener scowled finding his
hope diminished after hearing him.
Thus, amidst such dreary speculations
and gossips times strode away. The youths of the village remained unemployed
to see the slots filled up by city fellows leaving them only to cry over
their misfortune. Then, one bright afternoon the insane mendicant of the
village, a Ganesh who plodded villages after villages singing his
incomprehensible and impenetrable mystic songs declared at the village
square: Misfortune is yours, it's indeed so, / Dear ones, you don't know
who is your friend and who is your foe./ You, all are seemingly in a wrong
notion,/ What I do say an infiltration...infiltration and infiltration.
Some pretended to decipher his mystical verse, some despised and others
laughed away saying that a mad man hardly knew the real world around him and
thus, he gave his words such a degree of vigour and strength so as to make
others believe that the quality of insanity was a God gifted endowment.
The construction work for the
proposed hydroelectric project was being carried on gradually turning the
river's northern side dry, thus, making the village deprived of its only
source of fresh, sweet water.
Then, one night Kalicharan's throat
vented out pangs of harsh, grating noise and, with it trickles of blood that
left spattering horrible spots on the veranda, terrorized the old man to
observe that the saline water, the worst enemy of his would not spare anyone
who consumed it, however, one tried to catch at the last straw of life. He,
therefore, knew that his days were coming to an end. The villagers' too.
Slow but...a steady killing motion. No job for the unemployed village youth
but a pitcher full of saline, brackish water was the ultimate gratuity of
the village men's hard-earned livelihood. Then, the time came when the
village panchayat office took the employment notice off when the barrage
came to its completion.
Why?
Hopeless amidst all this, the village
youth could but wrung their hands and puckered their brows. Some said, "The
so-called eligible cities' men filled the slots." Some blurted out,
"Sarpanch has a direct hand in the recruitment." But, the village youth,
disturbed at seeing their hopes being camphored away and aspirations
impregnated with an ancient, unscrupulous principles, were left at sea.
Then one morning Kalicharan was found
lying dead, bed cloth soaked in blood. Nandu, who was the first to discover
it, had frolicked into the room with a muddy frog holding between his
fingers, to ask his grandfather, "Have you ever been so courageous as to
catch a frog like this?"
But the old man, whose mortal tongue
ceased to reply, did ultimately sent forth an answer —a piece of paper
peering out of the mattress caught the little one's attention to be taken
out promptly and unfolded to read its content. It went thus:
The river was our Mother-Boon,
Now, we have lost her forever.
Your dancing nets will cry soon,
For fishes shall come never.
Dry shall be your lips and
throats,
To its last dregs, even if you
drink.
For greed forbids your sailing
boats,
Poison shall make the water stink.
What have you got man...eh!
Nothing!
Our life is puffing, a breathless
puffing.
The piece of paper fell off the boy's
hand but he picked it up no more.
He ran off.