The Hundred Year Old India

While parties win and Prime Ministers return, a small part of UP stays unruffled, a small village, my paternal village I am afraid, lives as it has been living for ages. Tal Dholi, the strangely named village, declared an Ambedkar Gram by the State Government, entitling it to special development schemes. A yagya at our family temple, forced me to pay the village a visit, a visit that lasted four and a half hours precisely, and I got a look at the development in that region, supposedly the real India.

The first things that a city dweller notices in a village are the cows and the farms, a husky atmosphere, creating a strangely beautiful scene. The second thing I noticed were the wells, all of them closed. My father told me that in earlier days, wells used to be the place where people used to mingle socially, but now the need for wells does not exist, for there are hand pumps now, easier to use, and definitely more accessible. That is the first sign of fragmentation. But still, its development, development at a cost.

Next came my turn to take blessings. I was ordered by my father to touch the feet of every elder in sight, and I did that. I touched the feet of those villagers, with torn shoes and covered in mud, but the one person whom I thought was spotlessly clean, didn’t allow me to touch his feet, saying ‘Hamaar naahi’. I still did what I had to do, touched his feet, but was left confused. I later realized that it was a case of caste distinctions, untouchability basically. I came to know that the village was divided into factions, areas called ‘toliyas’  based on castes, the taboo region being the ‘chamar toliya’ or the area of untouchables. No one dares wander into that region. A ‘purohit’ will not perform rituals in their homes, and eating there is most definitely out of question. When the wells were in use, they were not allowed to use it, are still not allowed to enter the temple, and the most painful part is that they have accepted it. I was told that once a ‘chamar’ was elected the sarpanch. He was still not allowed to eat with the community. But that was not an issue with anyone.  And we talk about the abolition of caste distinctions.

The other image that stayed with me as I left was that of young girls that I saw. The daughter of the ‘naoon’, a caste and a profession, has taken up her mother’s job quite willingly. Today she applies colour on the feet of the members of the ‘higher’ class, is an expert in massaging, and has no qualms about what she does. Another girl, aged around twenty, member of a well respected family, came into the temple with four kids, all of them being her offsprings. She looked quite comfortable in her role as a mother. While the urban society goes on harping about women’s emancipation, these girls have no idea of this concept, they are quite certain that they are supposed to stay in their homes, perform their duties towards the males as efficiently as they can. And we thought the woman of today is stronger than men.

It was believed that polio has been eradicated from Uttar Pradesh, until a single case was reported in Barabanki. Must be about some other state, for I am sure I saw at least four children below the age of four suffering from polio, and the people are supposedly cool about it, for they are not even taken to the hospital, because children are still considered tools for income; one inefficient tool hardly makes a difference. And we talk about improved health facilities in villages.

The one thing that made me really happy was when I met the second oldest woman of the village, more than hundred year old, yet full of life. While walking, the bend in her back makes an acute angle, yet she stood up, went inside to bring two hand fans for us. She kind of symbolizes what the village should ideally be, weak in infrastructure, yet strong in spirit. That brought me to the end of the trip.

What I saw in that small village was painful. It was not a picnic spot as the city dwellers usually believe. Problems that we thought were over are strong as ever. Caste, land, religion still are the major factors. What makes it worse is that even the victims have stopped caring. What is rather alarming is that today, development itself is based on fragmentation of society. One section will be uplifted by a certain party, and the rest are left for the others. This can bring in development, but not social reform, which I believe is more important. The problems are numerous, and I can’t think of solutions. But I can suggest the primary step- to open our eyes. The urban population will have to stop living in a dream, stop believing that things are improving, because things are not, and unless this realization dawns upon us, things won’t. These are social problems, and the society will have to solve it.

Writing

Writing. The art used to express, to make a statement, to mock something, to praise something else, the art that can move the world, make it believe what the you believe. Stories, articles, essays, poetry, few popular forms of writing, all have one thing in common, only the ones written from the heart are appealing. Yes, writing is an art, some people would deny that, but its impossible not to respect those well versed in it. The pen is mightier than the sword they say - cliched but somewhat true. Thats because the men at the top are not the ones weilding the blade, but the ones signing the papers. 

 

Some people would say people who just write about stuff are cowards, its their perspective i'll say, because what I feel is that it requires more courage than say fighting a few goons. It requires courage to make a hundred people, each with a different perspective believe what you believe, to make them see what you see. That is perhaps a writer's only job description. Easy, is it? Easy to disrobe your thoughts, make it a public spectacle, while you stand alone- intellectually naked? Easy to help people find themselves, while in constant danger of losing oneself? I don't think so. Yes, there are a very few writers who are perfect, because there are very few comfortable exposing the darkest of their thoughts. Only those who have utmost faith, not in their skills, but in their beliefs, that survive.

 

Writing is not about pleasing people. It is to an extent pleasing oneself, the process which usually leaves a lot of others- not too pleased. Making the most controversial statements in the most diplomatic fashion, or making the most diplomatic statement in the most controversial fashion, the ability to do that is hard to acquire, and when acquired, its more addictive than the most intoxicating drugs. The mere desire to feel that feeling again can make you seem like an addict, suffering from withdrawl symtoms. Yes, there will be critics, there will be people wo will call you mad, and most likely incompetent. But, writing is an art, and artists know that a work of art is above criticism. It is fantastic if the writer believes it to be, it is bad only if the writer thinks so; because what  is of sole importance is the process, if it gives satisfaction to you, mission accomplished.

 

So what are the requirements to be a good writer. I would say only a few ideas, and utmost faith in them. Form is not greater than feeling. Grammar can be learned, vocabulary can be acquired, but belief, belief comes from within. No teacher, no manual can teach you how to believe in yourself. You are the only teacher, and the only one that matters. A writer can even be illiterate, an illiterate with the courage to look beyond the ordinary, beyond the alphabets, because truly, language is the most trivial part of this art. It more about desire than about skill. A desire to be heard, to express, to let go completelely, to experience the wind shatter against your face while your soul flies, lighter than ever. 

 

Yes, writing has a magical effect on you. Every burden, every sorrow can be alleviated, if not ended. And the effect created is somewhat explosive, because that small cluster of words, that piece contains a part of the human soul. The larger the part, the better it is. Perhaps thats why the greatest pieces are the ones written in utmost sorrow, or for that matter extreme happiness.

 

The magic of writing is such that it cannot be explained, cannot be studied, it can only be felt- like love, like hope, like every other great emotion that exists. It can build a world around itself, and it can destroy the one writing. Powerful, one would say. Yes, and more than one can imagine. It is a drug one should try at least once in their lives, and see if you can escape the addiction. I could not, and trust me, no regrets yet! 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------