Atul lets his black cow graze in the field and plays dangguti under the giant tamarind tree of Sadhutila. He hits the guti hard, sending it flying far away. Ram is amazed at his skill. When Ram tries to hit the guti hard, he only swings the dang in the air. Unable to compete with Atul, he looks for an excuse to start a fight. Atul hits the guti again, sending it far. He comes back, head down, counting his steps. Ram can’t stand it. He shouts from a distance, “I’m not playing with you anymore. You’re cheating in the count.”
Hearing Ram, Atul stops counting. The false accusation ruins his triumph. His happy face falls in an instant. He stands up straight, his veins throbbing with protest. He shouts back, “Hey, where did I cheat? You start a fight every day when you can’t play.”
And so, their game turns into a war of words, and then a wrestling match. Once, Atul pins Ram down and shouts, “Tell me, will you lie again or not?” Then Ram pins Atul down and shouts, “Tell me, will you cheat again or not?” They continue taking turns until they are exhausted. After a short break, they start again with renewed vigor by mutual agreement. Some days, Atul says, “Come on, let’s go hunt green pigeons in the cham tree next to the Rangghar.” Hearing his proposal, Ram gets ready immediately. With catapults in hand, they both run towards the Rangghar. On other days, Ram says, “Come on, let’s go steal gooseberries from Babutila.” Immediately, they both run. They quickly climb the tree and sit on the highest branch. Atul hides behind a branch and secretly picks gooseberries. Ram stands under the tree, keeping an eye out for anyone from the Babu’s house.
Today, too, Ram and Atul’s wrestling match might have started. Just as their argument began, a jeep came rumbling down the dirt road of Yendi. As soon as he saw it, Ram said, “Hey, look, a voting car is coming. Let’s go, they’ll give us papers – voting papers.” Saying this, he runs straight for it.
Atul sees the jeep kicking up dust as it moves slowly forward. To catch up, Ram leaves the road and runs diagonally across the field. Atul can’t control himself anymore. He grabs his dang tightly and runs, jumping and shouting, “Hey, voting car, give us papers. Give us papers, or you won’t get our votes.”
The jeep lurches and sways on the uneven road, and Atul, leaving Ram behind, runs after it at the same pace. The desire for voting papers has taken over his mind. While running, he doesn’t notice when he has crossed Rangghar, Guti Bari, Mulidhar, and Baithakhal. Suddenly, with a whooshing sound, the car stops, releasing a cloud of smoke from behind. A cloud of black smoke, like a fog, surrounds Atul. The smell of burnt oil hits his nose and mouth. He also stops. After a while, when the smoke clears, he realizes that he has come a long way and has reached the crossroads of Malibasti.
After the car stops, Atul notices two babus in coats and pants getting out of the car. They don’t have any voting papers in their hands. They walk towards Sudhanya Das’s grocery store. Atul feels very sad. He looks back and sees that Ram has also reached him by then. He makes a face at Ram and says, “Drat, they won’t give us voting papers. The babus have come with some other motive.”
Sudhanya Das was looking through his account books due to a lack of customers. He gets scared when he sees the babus getting out of the car and walking towards his shop. Who knows, maybe a big officer from the supply department has come. Last month, he gave a hundred rupees to the inspector to get his ration register checked. Sitting in an armchair in the drawing-room, the inspector had glanced at the money inside the envelope he had given. The register was on the table, just as Sudhanya had left it. When he was leaving, he picked it up, and the inspector told him, “There’s a local complaint against you. People are not getting things properly.” By now, Sudhanya has understood the meaning of the babus’ words. He understands that the inspector wants to increase the amount of money in the envelope in the future. He doesn’t say anything to his face. He tucks the register under his arm, leaves the room, and mutters to himself, “Sala, son of a pig. Have I opened a charity? I’ll give you money, money to the state federation, and pay for the laborers, and then sell rations at a fair price? Is my father hanging in the air on his way to heaven that I have to loosen my purse strings to save him?” Muttering these things to himself, he was returning from the city in a bad mood.
Now, seeing the babus approaching his shop, he thinks that this is surely the inspector’s doing. The seeds of panic sprout in his mind like water spilling from a broken pot. He comes out of the shop in fear. He raises his hands in a namaskar to the babus and says, “Please come, sir. We are fortunate to have your feet touch our dust.”
They liked this kind of humble welcome. Mr. Chakraborty, the Project Officer of Social Welfare, puts on a somewhat formal gravity and says, “Do you know Shanku Panchayat?” “Yes, sir, why wouldn’t I know the Panchayat?” Saying this, Sudhanya points to the Jamtoli road on the right of his shop and says, “Go a little further this way, and you will find their Panchayat office next to the 207 No. Nayantara Primary School. He stays there.”
Having found out the whereabouts of Shanku Panchayat, Mr. Chakraborty says to the gentleman with him, Mr. Roychowdhury, the IRDP babu, “Then let’s go that way, Mr. Roychowdhury.”
It was nothing like what Sudhanya had thought. The web of baseless fears that had been eating away at his mind vanishes in an instant. A stream of clear joy flows through his mind. He tilts his head and says in a soft voice, “Please sit here for a while, sir.” “No, no, not now. We’ll see later.” Saying this, Mr. Chakraborty and Mr. Roychowdhury start walking.
The new programs will be implemented in all the villages under the Dhanekali block. Mr. Roychowdhury, the IRDP babu, and Mr. Chakraborty, the Project Officer of Social Welfare, have come to take the responsibility of implementing the overall development projects of the villages in reality. The auspicious beginning will be in Jamtoli of Dhanekali block.
Since independence in 1947, Harin Shanuk, Dwarik Rikiason, Nabin Saotal, and Sumitra Tanti of Jamtoli have been gradually going to the distant jungle to cut firewood. They carry it on their heads and go to the city in a procession to sell it. After independence in 1947, Balai Das and Kamendra Das came to Jamtoli as refugees. They have built their houses where the high hills gradually slope down and meet the side of the bil. They catch fish and cultivate boro paddy. Of course, it was not like this during the time of the British sahibs. As soon as the evening faded, the mechanical monster of the Jamtoli Tea Estate would come to life. The dhak dhak sound would shake the entire area. The intoxicating smell of green tea wafting from the tea house would give Nabin Saotal’s father, Jhagru Sardar, a high like that of mahua. Like an untamed, frenzied horse, he would run to the Dhilla Lane. There, the madal would play to the rhythm of the Tusu songs. The sweet sound of the madal, piercing the silence of the night, would echo from hill to hill and fade away in the distance.
After the sahibs left, the tea house closed down first. The dense green carpet of the tea garden, neatly trimmed in the deep shade of the Shirish trees, gradually lost its youthful abundance. The pulse of vibrant life began to fade away in the stream of time. Now, the hills are polished like the bald head of Nader Nimai, stuck in their places like statues.
Jamtoli is now the ideal village for the implementation of rural development projects.
Mr. Roychowdhury and Mr. Chakraborty are walking along the footpath next to the old trolley line of the garden. Atul and Ram were watching the babus’ jeep with wide eyes all this time. Seeing the babus walking towards Jamtoli, they also start walking behind them. A little further on, the trolley line turns right and enters through the hill. After crossing the hill, there is a flat area – that is where the 207 No. Nayantara Primary School and the Panchayat office are.
Shanku Panchayat has been trying to gather people since before. But these days, many people are not very enthusiastic about his words. However, a few of those who are always under his patronage and get some dregs have gathered. They are weaving colorful webs of hope in their minds, thinking of getting something in the future. They have given up their daily work and are waiting eagerly in front of the Panchayat office.
As soon as he saw Mr. Roychowdhury and Mr. Chakraborty, Shanku Panchayat came forward. The ten or twelve people surrounding him also stopped their chatter and are watching the arrival of the babus with curious eyes. Shanku comes forward and says, “Sir, we have been waiting for you since morning.”
“We also started on time. We were delayed because of the road. The jolting of the car has turned our insides upside down. I hope I don’t have to go to bed as soon as I get home,” Mr. Roychowdhury said, picking up the thread of Shanku’s words. Shanku says with a laugh, “It’s still better now, sir. In the rainy season, you can’t even think of bringing a car here.” Mr. Chakraborty had thought that there would be a good gathering of local people when they heard that they were coming. Seeing only a few people in front of the Panchayat office, he couldn’t understand if more people would come. He turned his face towards Shanku and said, “Will more people come?” “Many have waited and left. More will come when the meeting starts, sir,” Shanku Panchayat said, hearing Mr. Chakraborty’s words. “Then there’s no point in delaying any further,” Mr. Chakraborty said, and then turned to Mr. Roychowdhury and said, “What do you say, Mr. Roychowdhury?” “Yes, let’s start,” Mr. Roychowdhury also agrees. Shanku Panchayat and two others bring the broken table and two chairs from the Panchayat office to the place where they had gathered outside. Mr. Roychowdhury and Mr. Chakraborty go and sit there. Shanku Panchayat stands a little away from them. The people are all staring at them with their mouths open. Atul and Ram also join the crowd. Girls and boys are still going to the city with firewood on their heads. Occasionally, one or two are almost running with a load of fish. As they go, everyone is glancing at the Panchayat office.
Mr. Chakraborty, the Project Officer of Social Welfare, gets up first. He has to explain everything to the simple people of the village in simple language. The lack of education still keeps rural life confined to the confines of medieval superstition and narrow-mindedness. The torch of education must be brought to the poor landless masses. Illiteracy must be eradicated. Mr. Chakraborty had rehearsed all these things in his mind to say to the villagers. But now, when he tries to say them, he can’t put them together properly. He said, “We will arrange for the education of the elderly in this village. A school for the old will be built here. Arrangements will be made so that everyone can write and read their own name and address.” Atul doesn’t like to hear about school and studies. It was good that their school was destroyed in the storm last year. Now he doesn’t have to go to school anymore. Sometimes, Peari Master comes from the city and sets up a school on the veranda of the big house in Babutila. Four or five children go to school. In the afternoon, the sound of them reciting multiplication tables at the top of their voices can be heard around Sadhutila. Thinking about all this, Atul looks at the babu again. The 207 No. Nayantara Primary School behind the babu is now clearly visible to him. It will probably also fall in the storm this time. Then the children’s school in the whole area will be lying on the ground. Now it will be good if a school for the old is built. As soon as he thinks of the old, the face of Ram’s father appears before him. A mischievous idea pricks his mind. He says to Ram, “Hey, listen, when your father can’t study in school, the master will twist your father’s ear like this.” Saying this, he twists Ram’s ears hard.
Ram was not prepared for this. Atul has twisted his ears quite hard. He is hurt. He gets furious. Unable to control his anger, he shouts, “Get lost, sala, he won’t twist my father’s ear. He’ll make your mother kneel on the veranda.”
Atul would have continued the argument. But he sees Shanku Panchayat watching them from a distance. As their eyes meet, Shanku Panchayat widens his eyes and makes a face. Atul sees this and lowers his head. He whispers to Ram, “Look, how the Panchayat is staring at us. Is he going to swallow us, man?”
Ram immediately understands the situation by glancing at the Panchayat. He doesn’t say anything more and stands quietly. By then, Mr. Chakraborty has finished what he had to say. After Chakraborty, it’s Mr. Roychowdhury’s turn. Mr. Roychowdhury gets up from his chair and looks around once. Then he clears his throat and begins to speak, “The overall development of the country is not possible without the development of the common people of the villages. We have taken up many projects to make the poor people of the villages financially self-reliant. Seeds, fertilizers, and irrigation facilities will be provided for cultivation. Proper assistance will be given to the poor people for poultry farming in an improved way. A large section of the country’s population is suffering from malnutrition. Arrangements will be made for cattle rearing in an improved way. We will bring cows that give 20 to 25 liters of milk. We will create a flood to remove the lack of nutrition. In fact, we will organize a revolution at the rural level – a white revolution. We will bring about a radical change in the rural social system by implementing our project.” Ram and Atul were standing side by side quietly. Hearing the babu’s words, Ram said to Atul, “Hey, the babu is talking about votes.” “Get lost, it’s not about votes. He’s up to something else, just like with votes.” Saying this, Atul grabs Ram’s hand and says, “Come on, let’s go. We won’t get any loot from this kirtan.”
Ram doesn’t hesitate after hearing Atul’s words. He starts walking. They are walking together. They have crossed Jamtoli and reached the crossroads of Malibasti. The babus’ car is in the same place. Atul is walking and thinking to himself, “What kind of cows are these, man – they give twenty-five liters of milk? His black cow has never given more than half a liter of milk. Since he was born, he has seen that when the black cow gives milk, the milkman Ramesh Goala comes every morning with a pot and milks the cow with his own hands. Ramesh Goala had given his father an advance of twenty rupees a long time ago, and because of that, he still has control over the black cow’s milk. Atul grazes the cow in the field every day and ties it up in the evening, but he has never drunk the black cow’s milk. In the morning, if Ramesh Goala doesn’t get half a liter of milk after pulling the black cow’s teats, he scolds Atul. Atul stands there, scared. Ramesh Goala is his mother and father. In exchange for the black cow’s milk, he gives them 250 grams of rice at night. If he doesn’t give rice on some days, they go hungry.
The babu’s words are still ringing in Atul’s mind. He thinks to himself, “Wow, if the black cow gave twenty liters of milk, we could eat our fill all year round.” Thinking about these things, he walks absent-mindedly and then stumbles on a high stone on the road and falls. His dangguti falls from his hand. The nail of his right big toe is torn off. His knees are also scraped and bleeding. Ram quickly catches him. He pulls Atul up and says, “Hey, your big toe is broken.” Atul doesn’t answer Ram. He gets up, picks up the two danggutis, and looks at Ram angrily and says, “Get lost, sala, the babus only fill our stomachs with sweet words.”
Samakal, March 1981