I revisited my village a little while ago, along with my brother. As we walked down the streets we reminisced (as always) the fun-filled days of our youth. We both miss the village environment and its amicable atmosphere. Although we had never stayed long enough in the village, our father always insisted that we spend a part of our summer vacations (from boarding school) there. These small breaks have left their firm imprint on our minds and hearts. We like to visit our village whenever an opportunity arises. However, urbanisation is now beginning to take its toll. The village looks more like a haunted place; you hardly see anyone on the streets (now cemented). Most of the men folk have left for their ‘jobs’ and the ladies are confined to their homes, avoiding the ‘harsh’ weather. Earlier one could easily identify new brides, in their new and shiny dresses, wearing a full complement of traditional jewellery. Now they keep their ornaments in lockers at banks. Today’s village folk seem to feel unsafe with each other! Gone are the trees, under whose cool shades we would sit for hours; they have been replaced by home/room coolers. Earlier open spaces have given way to houses. The cattle sheds have vanished, as Mother Dairy is the new buffalo of the village. Kitchen gardens too have vanished, and the area is now covered with tiles and cement - to give it a ‘neater’ look. The village drinking water well, which was then on the outskirts of the village, is now well within, and dying of neglect. In our youth it was always humming with activity. The ladies and girls would gather there, while going to fetch water, and exchange the latest gossip. It was considered very sacred - no one could climb on to its parapet while wearing slippers or ‘juttis’.
Our village was fortunate to be amongst the first to get electricity, way back in 1962. My father was then posted at NEFA (North East Frontier Agency), and so my mother took the initiative and our house became the first in the village to be electrified. What a spectacle it was! Every day people would gather to see the wonders of the electric bulb. Anecdotes would be exchanged about how dangerous electricity (it was DC, Direct Current) could be and how it could ‘catch’ you even if you went near it. Many anxiously tried to experiment and were ‘thrown away’. They failed to understand how an ‘unseen force’ could be so powerful. We bought a black & white Konark TV set in the early 70s. The Sunday TV movie shows were festivals in themselves. My father would get the entire courtyard sprinkled with water, cots and ‘mudhas’ would be laid out for the elders and a special enclosure would be set up for the ladies. Young children preferred to watch from the boundary walls and the roofs. The TV may have just had a 21-inch screen, but that did not matter. The shows were always house full – ours was a full house on Sundays. Special ‘teams’ were detailed to ensure that the electric supply did not fail; the village electrician was sufficiently ‘taken care of’. Evenings in general were social times, when the men folk came back from the fields, freshened up and sat down to ‘gossip’ around their ‘hookahs’. We, including my cousins, would walk down to our well in the fields with a bucket and rope, for a bath. Before that there would be some sports activity – either exercising or wrestling or ‘Kabaddi’ (the most favourite pastime). At times we would compete on who could ‘stand’ the most number of water buckets, especially in winters. Now they have a one ice bucket challenge and the whole world goes mad about it! Later in the evening, my mother would be waiting with a ‘fauji’ enamel mug full of fresh buffalo milk, which had to be to be consumed in one go. That gave her immense satisfaction and assurance that her sons would remain healthy…at least till the next mug the next morning. With the entire family now sitting together, it was time for the evening news, and our views. My father would put the radio on full volume, so that the nearby households could also benefit. There were very few private radios or transistors in those days, apart from the one at the ‘chaupal’. After the news it was time for tales from the British period or the War, or listening to interesting experiences of veteran soldiers. The village was full of these veterans, including a Victoria Cross holder. My father was himself a veteran of World War II, the 1947 partition, the 1962 Chinese aggression and 1965 Indo-Pak war. Almost every household in the village had a soldier serving in the Defence Forces - and the tradition still continues. Puffing on hookahs was an essential part of these evening get-togethers – it helped smoothen the flow of conversation. And of course so did a few pegs. I remember an incident vividly, when I had first come on leave after my commission in the Army. I realised that most of the men folk who had gathered at our ‘baithak’ in the evening were complaining of a sore throat or cold. My father advised me that when I next came on leave I must carry some bottles of rum or brandy. That day he helped out from his stock and, after a couple of rounds, the day ended with blessings from all the village elders who had come to meet me; of course their cough & cold also got miraculously cured.
Village folk have simple social customs. On a ‘charpai’, the elder always sits at its head. If another elder person joins the group, all the others shift towards the foot of the ‘charpai’. A ‘hookah’ is always rotated by the youngest, and he has the duty to refill or clean it. Whenever an elder person enters a house where ladies are residing, he makes a false grunt to ‘warn’ them. We were told to wish every elder we met, irrespective of what his or her caste was. We never heard of the now much-publicised ‘Khap Panchayat’. Most disputes were sorted out over a round of the ‘hookah’, with the village elders deciding what was ‘socially right’. Of course even then a ‘same gotra’ marriage was considered blasphemous. Most of the village folk were descendents of one ancestor, and so everyone in the village was a cousin. The village was literally one big family, carrying the same gotra. This intricacy has to be understood to fully understand why, amongst communities like Jats, ‘same gotra’ marriage is socially prohibited. As per the records, which my father very meticulously maintained, I am the ninth generation in our family tree. The family feeling meant that we were all together in both celebrations and tragedies. Though there were also some ‘dalits’ in the village, they were not treated as outcasts. I remember that I once took ‘prashad’ from a dalit lady and all the kids made fun of me, but when I ate it, to show them that there was nothing wrong in it and it had the same sweetness and God’s blessings, they all quietly took the prashad. My boarding school education helped me adopt this attitude.
Alas! Today the village is no longer what it used to be and resembles a ‘modern’ town-in-the-making. People do not trust each other. They even have no time for their kith & kin. Their diet is no longer nourishing – almost everything, including vegetables and milk - comes from outside. Milk is no longer the preferred drink, even for the youth. The abundance and easy access of liquor shops ensures its uninterrupted supply. Baithaks are now private, in one’s own home in front of the TV. This ‘social transformation’ has been aided by the sudden inflow of large cash from the sale of land. It is killing whatever is left of the spirit of the village. Wealth is being lost to liquor, gambling, big cars and the glitter of the modern world. Education is not a priority. This had led to many of the youth becoming indisciplined, or worse. I hope the village folk don’t lose all their rich culture and traditions. I want my village and its people to prosper; it should not become a slum of modernity. I want the new generation to imbibe modern education, but they should not forget their age-old traditions. I want my village culture to co-exist with the latest gadgets. I want my village back….but know deep in my heart that it has long gone.
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