April 1982
It was
another of those beautiful sunsets that take your breath away. I stood outside
my site-office on top of a hill, deep inside the wild, untamed jungles of the Eastern Ghats in Koraput, taking it all in and sipping a
late afternoon cup of insipid tea, when he caught my eye.
There
was this group of tribals huddling around another office at the foot of the
hill, beside the river bank waiting for their daily wage of five rupees. Some
were washing up and preparing for the long trek home, some were readying their
torches made of kerosene-soaked jute balls attached to a stout piece of a branch;
some of the young men were intent on checking their bows and arrows – a simple
precaution against the odd predator in the jungles. There were a number of
fellows with drums – each procession
would have two drummers - one leading it and the other bringing up the rear as
they made their way back to their villages
through the densely forested hills.
Among
them stood this boy I speak about, not yet a teenager, bare-bodied, with just a
pair of faded shorts, silent, frail in build, but with large wistful eyes –
eyes that wondered at everything they saw, eyes that knew that a lot of those
things could never be owned…. I had seen him around the sites a couple of
times, serving tea to people – he was too young to legally work.
As the
labour contractor (they called him “sardar” locally) and his three henchmen
came up and settled down on a rocky outcrop, there was quite a bit of jostling
and pushing in the crowd, while this boy stood silently on one side. It was my
first job and the first time I had come across these labour contractors. Three
words described them aptly : insidious, lecherous and dangerous.
The
sardar started calling out the names, the labourers came up in a single file,
put their thumb impressions on a sheet of paper, collected their daily wage and
moved away to a spot nearer to the river to wait till all members of their
village had been paid.
As the
sun started setting behind the hills, the first of the processions started
moving away – five flaming torches in front with three or four armed men, a
couple of torches at the back with some more armed men, while the women-folk
made up the middle. And of course, the two drums with a steady beat – dumdum –
dumdum – dumdum... they continued, slowly fading into the jungles.
The
crowd was getting smaller as each group of people left…. This boy was still
standing quietly, observing all that was going on. Finally the Sardar called
this fellow and paid him his due…. The boy took his money and breaking away
from the group, started skipping home, which I presumed from his direction, was
at the labour camp further downstream…. He seemed happy to have been able to
make his contribution to the family for the day.
Call
it instinct, call it something else, I found myself suddenly trotting downhill
in a bid to catch up with him. As I got closer, I yelled at him. He stopped
dead and turned around, eyes suddenly fearful …. I got closer, and asked him
his name… “Jogen”, came the reply….
“How
much does your Sardar pay you each day ?”
“Five
rupees, Babu”, said he…
“How
long have you been working for him ?”
“One
month”, came the reply… “Let me see your money”, I said…. He looked straight
into my eyes as he clutched his money in his fist.
“I
will not take it away, I just want to see how much he gave you,’ I said, with a
smile.
He
slowly opened his palm, his eyes intently fixed upon mine. Something must have
told him that all was not well…. “Is this OK ?” he asked….
I did
not answer him, but turned away and started walking back to my office, leaving
him alone in the fast-gathering gloom…..
It was
a one-rupee note. I was sure he had put his thumb impression for five.
***
April 2012
I had
gone to the Gariahat offices of KMC to pay the Corporation taxes…. The lower
floors of the building house a large market while the upper floors house many
offices and KMC’s payment counters. After about three hours of waiting with an
electronically issued token, I got the chance to pay my dues, and made my way
back through the labyrinthine stairs and shops till I reached the sidewalk.
I felt
I had to have a cup of tea and a smoke before I went home. As luck would have
it, a “Mashima’s” tea-stall at the gate of the building, was empty – apparently
Mashima had not turned up. I started walking around – there were shops and
hawkers selling all sorts of things but no tea.
I
finally spied a couple of young men walking with two cups of tea in their
hands. I asked them where they got their tea from and they guided me to an
alley across the road. I crossed over to the tea-stall. It was a typical,
single-table affair with a kerosene stove hissing fiercely while an open
tumbler of tea boiled incessantly. The stall owner was a well-built fellow
wearing a Manchester United jersey and a blue lungi – busy reading a newspaper.
Beside
him a little boy, barely eight or nine years old, or perhaps younger, was
playing with a broken bey-blade, trying to spin it and failing miserably. I
asked for a cup of tea. The fellow, without even looking at me hollered out,
“Ei – sahib ke cha de”…. (“Give Saheb some tea..)
The
little boy picked up his bey-blade and tried to stuff it into his pocket. He
took perhaps a couple of seconds longer than usual – the stall-owner put down
his paper and gave the boy a resounding slap on his head….. The little fellow
teetered from the blow, the bey-blade fell out and broke into quite a few
pieces around his feet.
“Eki,
marlen keno?” was my instant reaction.. (Why did you hit him ?”)…
“You
do not understand,” came the reply, “he is always playing and does not pay
attention to my customers..” I thought
of saying, “Neither did you, when I came,” but my gaze turned to the little
boy. He was pouring the tea into an earthen cup for me, silent tears rolling
down his face, his lips pressed together tightly. As soon as I had taken the
cup, he turned around to pick up the pieces of his toy.
I paid
the three rupees to the man and moved away – the tea tasted really bad.
***
It was
another time, another place…. three decades had passed … and yet, the more the
world around us changes, the more some things remain the same…..
***
