Saturday, February 6, 2010

TRAVELLING DOWN AND OUT (Part 3)


Prakash Pundalik Phalak was my colleague. He came from a remote Maharashtrian village, Hingona. While going home, he extended an invitation to me, which I readily accepted. I was already sinking into a groundless gloom and needed a change. Hingona, full of dust, was a cluster of houses, market place, temples and plantain fields. Prakash’s father was the first graduate from the village. He went on to become the Head Master of the local school and died young. It was easy to identify the house that he built. All others were much lesser in size and made out of mud. I was soothed by the ambience of the village. The life style had an internal rhythm. It was summer time and the sun was blazing. I didn’t venture out during the day. Early in the mornings, Phalak and I preferred to go the fields and had the luxury of an open-air toilet. I didn’t feel like using the in-house lavatory. Water was a scarce commodity. The small deprivations did not really matter. I ate as much as I could with great relish and spent the rest of the day in the guest room upstairs. The room was made of wood with tiny windows and I could watch the womenfolk at work. In their free time, they sat in a circle and made pappads. Phalak’s was a joint family. Everybody sat on the floor on wooden planks and had food together. Men and children first followed by women. Towards the end of dinner the lady of the house broke a homemade pappad at my back. It was an indication that I was accepted.






The villagers who wore soiled clothes complete with massive headgears treated me with utmost respect and wonder. They observed me with their thousand eyes, taking a cue even from my minutest gestures.
He wants water…He wants ice-cream …
They would transmit the message mouth to mouth to Prakash. It gave them a sense of gratitude.





Prakash and I were sleeping on the terrace. A group of young men gave us company. The world outside was drenched in moonlight. I looked out. As far as I could see, people were sleeping on the ground outside their tiny houses, young and old, men and women, bullocks, cows, dogs et al.


It was a truly refreshing sight. The most innocent sleep of a village. Mother Earth knew them well. They toiled in the fields to produce kela for the metro city.
Living on their meager earnings, eating frugal dal-roti daily without any sort of complaints …
Honest and hard-earned bread.
The expression in their faces is very similar to that of the peasant family in Potato Eaters.



Then, where lies the difference between these people and the jeans clad farmer who fly cargo-planes in the US?