OFF THE BEATEN TRACK

Dr. P.K. MISHRA

I was not sure if I really heard a few knocks at the door of the suit in the circuit house at that hour of the night; and therefore, after reflection over a few moments, I dismissed the matter. After a pause, however, there was yet another volley of knocks, though each one was gentle. I could no more dismiss the phenomenon as a trick of a benign spirit determined to enter my subconscious frame to recount in my dream my failures in life.

I had difficulty in locating the torchlight as the circuit house had been plunged into total darkness immediately after eleven. The idea of enjoying my sleep without feeling suffocated inside a mosquito net had to be abandoned in deference to the hordes of mosquitoes which descended on me after the room was plunged into darkness. My taking refuge inside the mosquito-net brought little relief in the mid-May Summer. To add to my discomfiture, nearly two dozens of determined mosquitoes had managed to sneak into the net and found their lone target handy to feast on. After a while, I stopped hitting different parts of my body in my determination to kill each one of them. I realized that I had not been able to reduce their number as the number of simultaneous pricking sensations on my body did not seem to lessen. Instead, I started tossing my frame constantly and in that process my tiny torchlight had rolled into a nice crevice which was at the disturbed joining-line of the two foamy mattresses on the wide bed on which I was the sole occupant.

After groping in the dark for sometime, I did retrieve the useful instrument and extricated myself from the bed to proceed towards the door to answer the knocking. Before opening the latch I wanted to be sure about the time of the night when I was about to open the door to meet, in all probability, a stranger. My strong and bulky frame somehow reassured me that it was safe to see the caller. I opened the door and without making any effort to know who the caller was, ushered him into my room. I succeeded in locating a candle and the match box which the thoughtful manager of the circuit house had managed to be kept in the room. The candle would not keep itself erect on the tea-poy. I managed to tuck it into an unusually large procelene ashtray. The room was sufficiently lighted. The stranger had a weak physique, a feature which was of great assurance to me. Even if he was up to some physical harm, he would be no match to me; at least so I reasoned within myself. In a huff however, I bolted the door from within. This was done to ward off any outside support which he would have banked upon to inflict physical harm on me. Thus, after making the battle ground absolutely safe for me, I showed a human face at the stranger and enquired if I could be of any help to him at that hour of the night.

He was quite aware of the mess he had landed himself in and was apologetic both in his appearance as well as in his tone. I had a feeling that I had seen that man some where in course of my hectic touring during the day; but since he must not have been an important functionary, he could not perhaps interact with me directly though he was with the accompanying team of local officials. I recollected that on a couple of occasions, this man, with a sharp nose and a pair of sunken eyes, had tried to attract my attention by way of suggesting clarifications sought by me on a few specific issues related to the prevailing situation in the villages I visited. The near-total absence of bovine wealth in a big village, primarily inhabited by people who, by caste, are traditional keepers of cows was a matter of concern to me. The village had been visited by drought for three consecutive years and this had taken a heavy toll of the fortunes of even the richer segments of the villagers. The plight of the poorer was miserable indeed. How many twists and turns the fate of a poor man take during his life span! I wondered. Every turn only pushes him further downhill into more and more misery. Gradually, all the cows and bullocks had been sold off so that a few human beings, their erstwhile owners, could live for a few more years. I was trying to assuage the sagging morale of the villagers and promising them of liberal government intervention. In course of my talk, I must admit, there was a great deal of patronizing.

This gentleman had pushed himself forward to come near me and had almost said that it was easier said than done when he was pushed back by a few villagers and a couple of officials.

"I would seek your forgiveness Sir," he said," for having been so impertinent as to disrupt your hours of rest and force myself into your company at this part of the night." I made him feel comfortable by saying that the hot summer night without electricity was bad enough; but armed with a determined battalion of mosquitoes, the hot night had indeed been militant; I being at the receiving end! I sincerely wanted a respite and his visit, therefore, provided the much needed relief. "In fact I am grateful to you for your visit." I said. "I shall be brief Sir," he said. "Since you would be leaving this place next morning for your headquarters, I would request you to consider changing the schedule for I have something to show to you and you alone tomorrow. I would like you to accompany me to Karlapani village so that I could show to you something worthwhile. It would indeed be a unique experience if we could reach the village to witness the sunrise there.

Strangely, this invitation from an unknown person to visit an obscure village had an overwhelming impact on me. Without bothering to know what was in store for me, I agreed to accompany him but suggested that he should look for the driver of my vehicle so that we could commence the journey without delay. He smiled and suggested that we perform the journey in bicycle as the village could not be approached by a motor vehicle. "But how do I find a cycle for me and also for you, at this hour of the night?" I asked. He requested me not to worry. He had made arrangements and two cycles had been kept ready at the portico of the circuit house, he said.

I washed my face and splashed cold water into my lazy eyes to keep them wide open; changed my dress; silently bolted the door from outside and wheeled away from the circuit house, almost silently with my stranger friend.

"What is special about your village Karlapani," I asked him, 'which you would like me to see?'

"First of all let us get introduced to each other rather well", he suggested with a smile on his face. "I am Jitamanyu Pradhan, about two years older than you. I work as a live-stock inspector and 1 have been in my present place of posting for twenty one years. Do you remember when Gudari Block Development Project in Koraput district was inaugurated?" He asked me suddenly. "On 5th May, 1955 (5.5.55)." I replied almost instantaneously for that was a date which was easy to remember and also because I had, out of curiosity about how a project get inaugurated, had accompanied my father to the place. He laughed, a bit loudly and told me that he had seen me, son of the collector sahib, on that day at Gudari. "Those were the days when 1 was studying in Ninth Class and you were perhaps in Class seven. Koraput district then was witnessing a lot of social transformation. Vinobaji spent many days in the district receiving great response to his call for Bhoodan and Gramdan. Many social workers of national eminence were working in different parts of the district. My father was working as a teacher in a school near Gudari. After the Block Development Project was inaugurated, he tendered his resignation and started working in a remote part of the Block to arouse social awakening among the simple but poor people of the area. The only other bread-winner of the family was my uncle who was working as a Forest Guard. He encouraged me to continue my studies despite the fact that my father was no longer in a position to help me financially. Six months after, funds for a tank in my native village were sanctioned. My uncle being a respectable person of the village, suggested that with the funds sanctioned, we should have two tanks for which there was need. This would be possible if the villagers agreed to accept lesser wage on the ground that the tanks would be for the benefit of their own families and their domestic animals. Over this suggestion, the villagers got divided and the group opposed to the suggestion of my uncle, succeeded in getting a contractor fixed up for the project. Only one small tank could be constructed; that too, after a lapse of three years! My uncle left the government job and the village after his suggestion was not accepted and the villagers got divided. This decision of my uncle meant disruption of my study. I got myself trained at Wardha to look after the health of cattle through the kindness of one of the social workers who happened to know my family.

Compulsion of poverty made me join the Government service. It also provided me wonderful opportunity to mix with the poorer segments of the society. I was posted as a live-stock inspector in this area twenty one years ago. Six years after joining my job, I met a young man in Karlapani in whom I found a rare mission of life. I was convinced that I could achieve something worthwhile. Both of us discussed on and on for many days on various options to improve the lot of our own people. We decided at last to concentrate on one village to which I am guiding you this night," he said.

"Please be mindful of the narrow bridge," Jitamanyu cautioned me. We negotiated, what I later come to know, was a sophisticated suspension bridge, narrow, barely wide for a bullock-cart to pass. I noticed in the predawn light the remnant of an old car , upside down, like a dead cockroach, in a ditch by the side of the road, on the bank of the rivulet which we had just crossed through the constricted bridge. "That is the father-in-law's car," he said. I was no wiser with this clarification. "Whose father-in-law", I asked. He had a laugh. "This is a long story", he continued. I was reassured that an interesting narration would follow which would make even more amusing the rest of the journey. "Gitimoy had own a scholarship to study, but decided to join the Civil Service primarily with a view to participating in rural reconstruction. He would have been the first person from this village to join the IAS. It was in the month of May; Gitimoy was preparing for joining the training course. An unknown gentleman called on his poor parents and made an abrupt proposition for matrimonial alliance between Gitimoy and his daughter. He introduced himself as a very rich contractor, based in Calcutta, and offered a lot of gold; two flats in the city, a lot of cash and a car to the boy. The gentleman was persuaded to stay on for lunch. He obliged. While he was resting after a simple village meal, the villagers had decided to convey to him a unique message. Gitimoy had his tacit consent to the decision. The wooden bridge over the rivulet was dismantled in a hurry in order to make it totally unfit for the car of the visitor to leave the village. The villagers came up to the rivulet to bid him farewell and requested him to leave his car as dowry to the village. Shortly thereafter Gitimoy married the daughter of a freedom fighter who had died years ago leaving his wife and the lone child in the care of the villagers of Karlapani.

This event was a turning point in the lives of the villagers. Gitimoy decided not to join the coveted service. Instead, he set up a modest laboratory in the village for working out innovation in agricultural activity. I had been working as a Livestock Inspector in this part of the district for years and did whatever was possible to help the villagers in improving the cattle stock. Within three years all the households of Karlapani had improved calves. Villagers started selling surplus milk in hundreds of lit res. You know, the village has a population of750; but the 185 families have 750 high yielding milch cattle.

Gitimoy spoke and the villagers listened. He would produce seedlings in his laboratory; he would recommend use of improved seeds and the villagers, without exception, would use them. He would talk about the collapse of the international power structure based on bipolarisation; he would explain the futility of the ethnic cleansing operations indulged in by some intolerant groups in different parts of the world. He would talk at length of the philosophy of Emperor Ashoka as enshrined in the rock edicts near Bhubaneshwar after the Kalinga war. The villagers would listen to him and would appreciate. They agreed that all voters of the village should always exercise their franchise in every election; but they would have nothing to do with boisterous propaganda; processions; speeches over microphones; posters & hoardings in the village. The villagers would put a big wooden box tied to one end of the narrow suspension bridge at the entrance of the village. The box would have a slit at the top; candidates or their representatives would put copies of their manifesto into the box. Each voter would go through them and decide whom to vote for. "That sounds interesting!" I said. "But what about government functionaries? Do they visit the village?" I asked "What is the use?" Jitamanyu replied. "The villagers run their own school; emolment is universal. They maintain their roads; they have community lighting arrangements by optimum utilisation of solar energy. There are biogas plants; both for the community and for individual use. We have no problem of faulty electric meters; no such innovation for stealing energy through hooking of LT lines!"

Since there is no motorable road to the village after the wooden bridge was dismantled and the narrow suspension bridge erected, high functionaries of the government are disinclined to make a time consuming tour into the village. And what should they come for? To see how well a system can be run through people's participation and without any interface with government? Jitamanyu reasoned. I smiled. "What about dispensation of justice?" I asked. "Why should people of Karlapani take recourse to injustice?" He retorted. "We have a community hall; meetings are held there regularly. Differences are thrashed out through discussion".

By now we had entered the village. Jitamanyu escorted me to a beautiful bungalow which, he said, was the guest house. Cycling in darkness was a queer feeling but it was a refreshing experience. I was ushered into a room and was made to settle down on the sofa & Jitamanyu left the room. Shortly thereafter I saw a health, handsome eight year old child coming into the room. He offered me a glass of butter-milk which had liberal application of garlic paste; salt and mint; made just the way my wife makes for me. I was curious to know about the identity of the boy. As if he could read my mind. " Jitamanyu is my name . I am the only child of Gitimoy Choudhury" he said almost immediately; "And what about the older Jitamanyu who had escorted me in the darkness?" I asked. He withdrew a bit and almost whispered "uncle died eight years ago. All the good things in the village you see were initiated by him and the villagers continued walking in the same direction even after his death. To continue his legacy, my father calls me Jitamanyu. I was born shortly after the older Jitamanyu passed away".

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(Writer is a former civil servant.)