Of Flocks, Fields and Fife (Travel Diaries cont.)

"Papoon", he answered. 

"Hmm...now that's a name I have not heard before".
"Really?" He sounded surprised and happy, rejoicing in the fact that even his name, a Mr. Nobody, hailing from a Nowhere Land could be worth considering for its element of novelty. He too like many other migrant workers I was to meet during my short sojourn in Bhubaneswar, Orissa had come to the capital city looking for a job. "I go back to my village for the harvest season," he confided. The fleeting smile conjured up by its very memory lit up his face and added a new sheen to his voice.

His village, as I was to learn during our conversation, was nestled amongst the hills in the district of Nayagadh. "It never gets hot there. And if it does, we just go swimming in the pakhori. The pakhori water looks dark and dangerous, but, you cup your hands and dip them in, what you will find in there is the cleanest and purest of all water." Papoon said this as though he were describing a magical phenomenon. Pakhori is the local word for a small round pond, supposedly fed year around by an underground spring. I could sense the thrill as he spoke fondly of running through the fields, splashing in the pond, catching fish and cooking it over a campfire. There was never a better place for a boy than his village. But, adolescence and the quest for a job brought him to the city to ferry people around in an auto rikshaw. Clad in jeans with tucked-in shirt and a pair of sunglasses, Papoon looked very much at home, yet nostalgia kept  creeping in through the cracks in our little informal chat.

While for the young and carefree Papoon, being in a big city like Bhubaneswar, driving an auto rickshaw seemed more of an adventure, for Sonjeeb, a house-help working 24/7 for an elderly couple, the move to the city was decreed by Ananke herself. Pushed by extreme poverty, he landed up selling one of his kidneys to bring up a family of three. Swindled off the prized money by his own wife, disheartened he left the village of Salepur, renting out his small rice field to a local farmer. The aim was to find a better life in the city, for himself and his two children. Fortunately, with the help of some kind Borishto Nagoriko (senior citizen) couple, by whom he was employed, he managed to send both his kids to boarding schools. "My daughter is a state-level athlete," he proudly proclaims, hoping his son too would follow in her footsteps...Even though Sonjeeb carries a past riddled with tragedies, he is grateful for the present as he multitasks between being a nurse, a cook, a driver and a house-help for the kind couple who are helping his children get an education. 

The migrants I met in the capital city of Orissa were many and so were their stories but the same thread of pathos and longing ran through them all. The Papoons, Sonjeebs, and the Babunis, all reminded me of Yashwants, Gokuls and Keshavs  I used to know during my short stint in Delhi. Nonchalant, marble-playing lads from the hills of Gadwal, summoned by the fast-paced city to work as errand boys  for small stingy companies, had found themselves trapped in a world they hardly understood, let alone navigate. Sad, out-of-place young men, scarcely out of their teens, they lacked the requisite skills in negotiating the restless city, which itself was running recklessly through a cemetery of buried dreams. They did not belong there. Suited and booted they moved around, serving tea and biscuits to the staff, emptying the garbage bins, mopping the floors, while the mountains and the rollicking streams beckoned. 

Returning from the famous Sri Lingaraj temple and having whispered my wishes into the formidable ears of Nandi The Great Bull, I was confident that he would, in turn, convey them to Lord Shiva. Indeed, I wondered, why don't these migrant workers have Nandi take care of their dreams as well? Let a statue of Nandi be erected in each village, fulfilling every requested dream... For either him, the people, or a coalition of the two must develop a sustainable rural economy, so successive generations are not compelled to leave their folks, flocks and fields behind to jump onto the urban conveyor belt... chasing the mirage of a better life.



Comments

Kamalini said…
This piece of yours reminded me so of Bhigu, my farmer character in a recently-published anthology- Bhigu is the protagonist of the story- PIN-DROP. I hope you read it and see what I’m alluding to. Your writing, as it always does, raises questions and stirs the embers within, those of compassion and affection toward those less fortunate than us. Thank you for writing this, and for the narratives you choose to expound. Love, Reena
April 14, 2023 at 1:43 PM
Unknown said…
As always, dear Seema, I much enjoyed this piece which propelled me in your country. Each life is a story that deserves to be told.
April 14, 2023 at 11:02 PM
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