Saturday, July 10, 2010

Poles apart

The biggest thing that I am missing about India is the monsoon. As the temperature soars every passing day in Jeddah, going out of the house has become a pain of the highest order. Furthermore, trudging in and out of the air-conditioned enclosures to the scathing air outside has brought in bouts of dry cough and sore throat which keeps me awake - coughing through the night.

Meanwhile, as the flood situation worsens in Ambala, Kurukshetra and nearby districts of Punjab, our countrymen have got back to their annual ritual of cussing the rains and waiting for the sun.

Last year, rainfall were unpredictably low and barring a few bouts of rains here or there, whatever water flew in were in the form of tears of rural farmers unassuming to the concept of cyclical crops, rain-water harvesting or modern methods of crop harvesting. I’d been for day long hikes to little known hamlets near Mumbai. Ploughing was in full swing in these places and people were out of their huts sowing seeds and ploughing their farms using the old-fashioned wedge, towed by a bull. I couldn’t fathom why tractors weren’t used in these places. Maybe the topography doesn’t allow the smooth movement of these huge wagons? Or maybe they were too poor to afford them?

Whatever little it rained, it turned these places to ephemeral havens. We went to the villages the tributaries of the Gargai and Vaitarna River and walked through the country. I was baffled to come across places where there were no signs of electric poles (and naturally, no electricity) – and still these places were only 150 odd kilometers away from Mumbai. I guess it would only be fashionable to say I was jealous of the kind of life the villagers enjoyed.

We befriended villagers who walk for 5 kms to reach the nearest dispensary at the town-center (aka bus-stops). All this so that they could impart a tetanus and polio pulse to their newly born – doing their bit to ensure a better life for their offspring. Now, I would be cynical to state that these villages aren’t connected by a local transport system. There were indeed State Transport buses connecting these villages but their frequency was alarming – a bus every hour or two. If you missed one, you have to hitch a ride in the treacherous Mahindra commander, which carried 20-24 people all at once. The commanders are officially 8-seater wagons. Call it mathematical consistency for, sadly, a life here would only be worth 1/3rd of that of their most depraved counterparts in the metros.

But these people were also the warmest I’d ever met. Most of the times we’d go in search of dams or bridges or waterfalls situated in far off corners in these villages. The umpteen ‘guides’ we sought help from never expected anything in return. They’d patiently walk us through the difficult ‘freestyle’ river-crossings and pull us through slippery rocks. At the end of our journeys, when we part ways, they’d smile with exuberance unknown to their urban counterparts. This was a testimony that they did not expect any favor in return. We’d share whatever food we lug along with us and part ways.

Now as I lay back on my bed, cars hissing by my window, I long for those 5 minute stopovers under the straw roofs. I wish that once I go back to India, I get an opportunity to meet a lot more such simple, warm and honest people. My biggest wish is a walk-through India, meeting fellow country-men, laugh with them, live with them and bring subtle difference in their lives. I wish.