Medinipur and, without being aware of it, I got pulled back into politics. I’m sorry. I keep thinking of you reprimanding me gently, saying, with so much laughter held in check in your voice – There goes the parrot again, reciting its textbooks.
Yes, our journey. That was what I really wanted to write about. From Gidhni Junction the railtrack became a loop-line, my first time on one such. Nature seemed to change its looks and personality as the loop-line separated from the broad-gauge. The earth had turned dry, dusty and red. The distance between the large trees became greater and greater. Instead of those big ponds, surrounded by coconut and palm trees, we saw little ponds – large puddles, really. The density of everything, vegetation, human habitation, people, thinned out. Huge fields of rice, then a few dots of thatched mud houses. Some dwarf date palms, that was all I could recognise.
Actually, to tell you the truth, I thought they were betel nut trees until Dhiren laughed and said – You’re such a dyed-in-the-wool city boy, you don’t know your betel nut from your date palm; really, what are we going to do with you? We’re going to be living with peasants and you’ll stick out like a pylon in a flat, empty field and embarrass us all.
More laughter. Because he was not from the big city, Dhiren fancied himself as a bit of a Nature man, at one with trees and birds and flowers and such things. He was always playing this game of one-upmanship with me; his way of reducing the distance between us, I suppose. There had been several times in the past when I’d had to bite my tongue to stop myself from saying – Dhiren, it’s Uttarpara you’re from, the mofussil, hardly open countryside and the very heart of Nature, is it?
Then Dhiren pointed out simul trees – not in flower, so I wouldn’t have been able to identify them anyway. I can hear you laughing and ganging up with Dhiren, saying – He’s right, you’re a through-and-through city boy, you can’t even put a name to the simul tree? To which I can only say that this is the tyranny of you rural folk . . .
When the train left the main railway line and went over the cutting, the music of the wheels changed. The people at the stations were taller, darker than city people. They had curly hair. The women who boarded the train were much shyer. They did not want to sit on the benches, but sat on the dirty floor of the carriage.
At a tiny station we bought tea in small terracotta cups. Dhiren said – Have your fill, there’s no tea where we’re going, and it wouldn’t do to drink tea anyway when we are with the farmers, because they don’t have any and it’s considered an urban luxury. Where would they get money to buy tea?
Ufff, Dhiren did talk so . . . jabbering away constantly: squad formation, methods of warfare, teaching class politics to farmers, how there was no transport where we were going, we would have to walk scores of miles . . . unending, his chatter. No wonder he was the de facto leader of every activity that required talking – speeches in assemblies, canvassing votes during elections, student-body meetings . . . anything you could think of. I kept looking with suspicion at everyone in the carriage. Whose ears were picking up on all this? I made a sign to Dhiren to stop. It took some time before he caught on.
Then, suddenly, scrubland. And the promise of forest beyond the horizon. I didn’t know how I had sensed it.
Red earth. Have you ever seen it? The dust that catches in your hair, in your clothes, when you walk over the dry soil, is red. I had never seen red earth before.
We got off at Jhargram. Samir said we should look out for police at the station, we should get off the train and walk out singly. From Jhargram to Belpahari in a bus. Right at the other edge of Belpahari, from where you could see the forests of this corner of Medinipur spreading out in all directions, was the home of Debdulal Maity, our contact in this
Yes, our journey. That was what I really wanted to write about. From Gidhni Junction the railtrack became a loop-line, my first time on one such. Nature seemed to change its looks and personality as the loop-line separated from the broad-gauge. The earth had turned dry, dusty and red. The distance between the large trees became greater and greater. Instead of those big ponds, surrounded by coconut and palm trees, we saw little ponds – large puddles, really. The density of everything, vegetation, human habitation, people, thinned out. Huge fields of rice, then a few dots of thatched mud houses. Some dwarf date palms, that was all I could recognise.
Actually, to tell you the truth, I thought they were betel nut trees until Dhiren laughed and said – You’re such a dyed-in-the-wool city boy, you don’t know your betel nut from your date palm; really, what are we going to do with you? We’re going to be living with peasants and you’ll stick out like a pylon in a flat, empty field and embarrass us all.
More laughter. Because he was not from the big city, Dhiren fancied himself as a bit of a Nature man, at one with trees and birds and flowers and such things. He was always playing this game of one-upmanship with me; his way of reducing the distance between us, I suppose. There had been several times in the past when I’d had to bite my tongue to stop myself from saying – Dhiren, it’s Uttarpara you’re from, the mofussil, hardly open countryside and the very heart of Nature, is it?
Then Dhiren pointed out simul trees – not in flower, so I wouldn’t have been able to identify them anyway. I can hear you laughing and ganging up with Dhiren, saying – He’s right, you’re a through-and-through city boy, you can’t even put a name to the simul tree? To which I can only say that this is the tyranny of you rural folk . . .
When the train left the main railway line and went over the cutting, the music of the wheels changed. The people at the stations were taller, darker than city people. They had curly hair. The women who boarded the train were much shyer. They did not want to sit on the benches, but sat on the dirty floor of the carriage.
At a tiny station we bought tea in small terracotta cups. Dhiren said – Have your fill, there’s no tea where we’re going, and it wouldn’t do to drink tea anyway when we are with the farmers, because they don’t have any and it’s considered an urban luxury. Where would they get money to buy tea?
Ufff, Dhiren did talk so . . . jabbering away constantly: squad formation, methods of warfare, teaching class politics to farmers, how there was no transport where we were going, we would have to walk scores of miles . . . unending, his chatter. No wonder he was the de facto leader of every activity that required talking – speeches in assemblies, canvassing votes during elections, student-body meetings . . . anything you could think of. I kept looking with suspicion at everyone in the carriage. Whose ears were picking up on all this? I made a sign to Dhiren to stop. It took some time before he caught on.
Then, suddenly, scrubland. And the promise of forest beyond the horizon. I didn’t know how I had sensed it.
Red earth. Have you ever seen it? The dust that catches in your hair, in your clothes, when you walk over the dry soil, is red. I had never seen red earth before.
We got off at Jhargram. Samir said we should look out for police at the station, we should get off the train and walk out singly. From Jhargram to Belpahari in a bus. Right at the other edge of Belpahari, from where you could see the forests of this corner of Medinipur spreading out in all directions, was the home of Debdulal Maity, our contact in this
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