The Hindu Business Line : An awakening in unknown India

Wide open farmlands splashing yellow of the sarson (mustard) crop; far horizons a bright yellow; by February-end, the sarson will be harvested and the green (stem) and yellow (flowers) will go and one will have to wait for another winter; men laze in their charpoys pulling at their bidis; after the boring morning chores, women huddle together on the mud floors of their angans taking in the winter sun; smart but unkempt children play village games which have long disappeared from Mumbai; poverty prowls, as it always has, and the villagers are inured to its din... . Every trip into unknown India is an awakening.

Cycles and bullock carts still leave their tinkles and loud creaks on village roads. On our way to Ken Gharial sanctuary we watched the mud homes on the sides of the roads with flimsy doors. Most of them were vacant. In the evenings, electricity disappears. None bothers. One is tickled by the abundance of patience and time in the air.

At the dhaba, where we had some tasty tandoori roti and dal, the serving is unhurried. It took exactly one minute for the vendor to pull out a cigarette from its pack and hand it to me with a matchbox. In Mumbai, it takes a second. You will have to sit and stare as the chef in a dirty half pant and dirtier vest pats the dough in his unwashed palms and places the rotis on the walls of the mud stove. We took a rather long route to reach Panna district: Train from Mumbai to Indore; Indore to Bhopal by train again; Bhopal to Satna, yet again by train and then, a two-and-a-half hour bus ride from Satna station to Panna.

The buses are like mini pick-up vans and most of the time the passengers stand on one leg over long distances. It is hard on the women with children in their hands and a few holding tightly to their sarees. Nobody offers a seat and that is not being cruel as those in the seats have done their standing and need a rest.

In the bus, every man and woman have bad teeth chewing and spitting tobacco (sold in plastic pouches) over long hours. The bus station at Satna is in a steady state of confusion. While we were waiting for a bus, a woman coming out of one wailed loudly, as one of her fingers had been crushed by the bus door. The public roared, some took the number of the bus, and after some time the bus drove away.

The tea and snack shops straddle open gutters and all drink tea in peace standing near the gutters. The tea with a thick dose of ginger is soothing and it is common custom in north India to leave alone a tea drinker. You wait till the tea drinking is over. "Are yaar, chai to peene do (Man, let me drink my tea)," is the refrain if you tap anyone sipping tea. We did not get a bus to meet a few officials of the Madhya Pradesh Forest Department and took a cycle rickshaw with the seat sloping forward. Dinesh and myself climbed into the rickshaw and got out of it faster, as there was no way the 60-year-old could take us over two km to the forest office.

We put our bags in the rickshaw and walked behind. That helped one breathe in the small town with spit on the roads, ponds choked with water hyacinth, dirt and dust all over with a flyover coming up. Ramkishen, the rickshaw driver, is a toothless, stringy, 60-year-old earning about Rs 50 a day. His wife passed away long ago, while his first son works with a building contractor and the second plies a rickshaw. There is no retirement for Ramkishen nor any provident fund or gratuity. He is not aware of old age pension plans that are glibly and fashionably sold by bankers. Dream Budgets have not helped Ramkishen any. He operates at street level and it is the only level he knows. "Ghar mein baith ke kya karoon? Kuch paisa milega to ghar chala sakta hoon (What will I do sitting at home? If I earn some money it will help the family)," he says with a one-toothed smile.

We still had a few hours on hand and Dinesh decided on a street corner tea before taking a second cycle rickshaw for a round of the Satna market, opposite the railway station. Mohan, the middle-aged rickshaw fellow, was mildly surprised when we refused to climb into his rickshaw, as in Satna one can see three to four in a cycle rickshaw.

In the Satna market, crowds had mobiles hooked to their ears. And without a bhel puri or sev puri or pani puri, a visit to a small town market is a waste. The sev puri was delicious and one consumed two plates.

Dinesh went into a dark Benares Home for rotis, rice and dal, while one chatted with Mohan. Mohan earns about Rs 100 a month and has married away his Class 10 daughter to a boy who has passed Class 8.

One asked why he did not get his daughter into college and Mohan said: "Saab, acchha hai meri ladki Class 10 tak mere ghar me thi. Nahin to pehle ladki ka shaadi do baras mein karthe the. Mushkil hai saab (It is good that my daughter lived with me till she passed Class 10. In earlier times, a girl got married when she was a child. It is difficult)," Mohan told me smoking a bidi. He has his wife and three sons to look after.

P. Devarajan

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