“The engine’s gone, sir. Nothing can be done now.”- The driver had declared.“Nothing! Are you sure, Mohan”-I shouted from the car.
“Yes Sir! Now we are dumbstruck.”
“Well, that’s nice; as hell, isn’t it?” I grinned, “Now tell me what is to be done next?”- I asked.
“Well, that’s obvious. There is a bus stop, not very far from here. Let’s say 50 minutes on foot. If the luck shines, we can expect a bus before dusk.”
“The hitch-hiking won’t do well, I suppose.” I can rely on Mohan for that kind of information. He had travelled a lot. Wonder, why did he get into this job?
“If you want to die a merciless death; sure, why not”
“Don’t mock me. I am your employer”- I used the last arrow.
“Whatever, the thing is, you go. I have to stay here to wait for a mechanic or something. You go hire bus for the nearest town i.e. Gangapur. I’ll contact you as soon as the matter settles. Leave the luggage behind. It will be fine with me.”
“As you say, boss”- I mocked him back and started my so-called ‘short journey’ which was not short. You will soon know why.
I was walking through a rather jungle area. The trees were silent and still. Well, they are supposed to be so, but yet…………., I know I think too much. Maybe that ‘merciless death’ thing had an effect on my mind.
Anyways, I was on my way to the bus stand. Suddenly I saw a man, half naked, in dhoti, carrying an axe and lots of woods on his shoulder. He was sweating heavily. Suddenly, he hit a stone and lost his balance and fell. Woods were all scattered on the road. I rushed to him and helped him to collect his woods. He smiled to me. Suddenly, his bleeding foot caught my eye. He noticed it too and wound his turban-cloth on it,
“Let me help you to carry this. Are you going this way?”
“Yes. Where are you going, sahib.”
“I’m on my way to the bus stop”
“Oh! That’s not far. Probably 10 minutes.”- He said
“That’s great”- I thought. “I’ve been walking for 20 minutes, on a road of 50 minutes (according to Mohan). I was left with 30 minutes, and now he says 10 minutes; good lord. But then, he is a local resident, used to of these roads. His walking speed is thrice of mine. That settles everything. I suppose.”
“What’s your name?” I asked formally.
“Lakkad ram, Sahib”, he replied.
“Of course, how silly of me.”, I thought.
We resumed our journey. Lakkad ram carried the bundle of woods again. I offered help, but he politely refused, saying it might have slivers. But to satisfy me, allowed me to carry his axe, so that he can use his both hands. I carried the axe like a warrior, on my shoulder.
“Where do you live, Lakkad ram?” I asked out of boredom.
“Nearby village, sahib”
“What is it called?” I asked. “No name, just village”. And we talked on. Every now and then, I was left behind and Lakkad ram politely waits for me.
“City guys are soft on their feet, aren’t they?” he commented. “Well, many are; many aren’t. Not me, of course.” I was advocating the city people in front of a village dweller.
“Here comes my village.” Lakkad ram pointed to a settlement of mud houses. “And there’s the bust stop.” He pointed to a sign that said ‘BUS STOP’ with few rocks to sit upon.
“Well, what time do you expect the bus to come?” I enquired.
“No fixed time, and what is time for us? We wake at dawn, go to work, return with dusk and sleep with moon”
“So, what now, I think I should wait there.”
“Oh! Don’t worry. Come to my house. You are our guest, sahib. Don’t worry about bus. The driver stops here for a tea break. The passengers too have something. You should come and have a cup of tea too. It is real good”
We headed to the tea stall and I ordered two cups. “No sahib, no tea for me. The food will be ready at home.” Lakkad ram said. “O.K., make it one” I ordered the tea shop owner. He stared at me for a while, I don’t know why. There was some amusement in his eyes when he saw me heading towards village.
Anyways, after tea, we headed towards village and towards Lakkad ram’s house. It was small, yet beautifully made. There, I met his mother, wife and a daughter of five years. The Lakkad ram’s wife, Kamala told her to go and play outside. Kamala lit the fire to cook. It was very strange fire. I had never seen such a fire from mere woods. The fire was rather strong.
Anyways, the food was prepared and served. Really, it was the best ‘Dal-Bhati Churma’ I have ever eaten. I appreciated the cook. Well, that’s my work. I am a famous food critic and an amateur cook.
Then, we took a stroll in the village, well, less for the purpose to explore, more for the purpose for digestion.
It was evening so everyone had returned from their work. The children were playing the childhood games. The lame walks, marbles, drawing in sand, hide and seek. It was such refreshing and rejuvenating scenery. The women were preparing food, fetching water from the nearby lake, with strong hands and such delicacy. The men were sitting outside on ‘charpais’ smoking ‘hukkas’. Stray dogs were wandering and begging with their eyes for something to eat on every house. The cool breeze was carrying the essence of the trees, coolness of mud, touching the lake and crashing on my face. I was lost in thoughts. It was so peaceful there, so calm, so serene. I thought of the fast paced city life. On one hand, I run every day from home to work and return home. How much time has passed since I spend a holiday with family? My works leads to almost every corner of world, yet I have no time to rest. I go there, taste the food, and give my comment and leave. I was there only because my childhood friend was getting married. I was returning from the marriage when all this happened.
On the other hand, there was this village, where the words ‘family and relations’ make sense. No worries, no tension. They were happy in their own way, I always thought of the villages as a place of rubbish, damp smell and pig living. Well, it was not that much different, but still, it was good, it was better, it was best. If this is what they call a ‘village’ and that a ‘city’, I will be glad to settle here. But who am I kidding. I can’t, I just can’t. That’s a very sweet-sour irony.
Anyways, the bus arrived and they did stop at the tea stall. As the bus was partly filled, it departed soon. I bid the Lakkad ram and his family goodbye, and thanked them for letting a city man to just taste a little bit of their life. I was never going to be able to forget them. The tea stall owner was still sharing me. I wondered why? Anyways, the bus reached Gangapur.
After five hours, I was with Mohan. The car was now perfect. We headed to home sweet home.
“Mohan, you did tell me about bus stop, but didn’t tell me that there was a village there too.” I asked. “What village you are talking about? There is no village there.”- Mohan replied. “The villages, on the opposite side of the road, with a tea stall and mud houses.”- I said. “There is a tea stall there, I know it. But there is not a village there, at least not in my lifetime”- Mohan replied confidently. “That’s weird”- I thought.
As soon as I reached home, I took help of my most trusted friend, Google. What I came to know was thunderclap. The village did exist there, but some 20 years ago, till it became a victim of a major fire accident. Everyone and everything was burnt to ground, nothing was left. Suddenly, all the images of the village circled in my mind. It didn’t take me much time to realize that I have just returned from a “Ghost Village”. That’s amazing. No wonder why tea stall owner stared me. I mean, how many people do you see that come to your shop, order two teas, and then talk in air and make it one, then go to a burnt ground, sit there, again talk in air, pretend to eat, stand up, take a stroll, and then leave on bus, still taking in air.
The images of Lakkad ram still haunts me, inviting me to the village again. Really, now I can’t forget him, literary, neither him, nor my 30 minutes at village, most beautiful and most scary one. Oh Gosh!!!
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याद नही,गर झुका हो कभी,
