In a Different World
A Village in Birbhum.,PHOTO: www.westbengal;tourism.gov.in
Here in Shantiniketan things are not quite as I thought they would be. I had drawn a picture of the place in my mind out of a long held perception. I have been here thrice, the last time being in 1995. It was the month of December, beastly cold and dry. The hotel we checked in was horrible. But that did not really matter. We arrived at about nine in the evening and, after a frugal meal, went to bed. Incidentally, I do not remember much of my two earlier visits in 1971 and '74. So my impression of Shantiniketan being a dream place must have been a perception held over years and nurtured by my readings and other exposé about the place. Rabindranath and Shantiniketan to me are indivisible. On the following morning of December 22nd, 1995, when we went out to see Shantiniketan I was taken by unpleasant surprise. It was not quite what I had pictured in my mind's eye. The images that were conjured up from my readings of Rabindranath and descriptions given by many of my older friends who were in love with the place, were shattered. I thought during my visit of '95 that 'time' must have taken its toll on this most venerated bastion of art and culture. But what seemed unacceptable is why should time be allowed to tamper with a place as consecrated as this?
That Rabindranath's vision was not to be fiddled with was universally acknowledged. But, in 1995, we found very little of Rabindranath here. However our visit to the village of the Shao(n)tals famously known as “Shao(n)tal Palli” restored some hope about the glory that seemed naturally associated with this hallowed place left us with a feeling of fulfilment. We went into some huts that were extraordinarily beautiful. But that was not all what Shantiniketan held for me for years. It was a philosophy that I had drawn my inspiration from a comparatively early age that that made me look forward to coming here. And so I did. I must confess that at the end of it all, despite some mundane discomforts, I left the place with a sense of contentment.
This time on I came to Shantiniketan as my wife Sara's retinue. She was coming here to participate in a seminar and I tagged along. I thought, while preparing for this visit that even if I found Shantiniketan wanting in any way I would not complain. I had decided to go there and I would go there. I would try to imagine that I was there in its golden days. We rented a car that would take us from Kolkata to Shantiniketan and back. We started one fine morning from our hotel in Kolkata, crossed the Hooghly River over the Vidya Sagar Bridge and hit the Grand Trunk Road. I had read and heard a lot about this historic road as a school student and had an image built in my mind about it but never had an opportunity to see this piece of history with my own eyes. This was the road initiated by Sher Shah Suri, the Pathan Emperor of India. He introduced mail on horse back through this road travelling from Bengal to Delhi and beyond. He built inns along the road so that travellers could rest, refresh themselves and move on. This road saw a lot of significant pieces of history roll through it.
Shantiniketan, PHOTO: www.westbengal;tourism.gov.in
On way to Shantiniketan our driver decided to leave the GT road and take a link road, ostensibly, to cut short the distance. Though it transpired that this road was longer. Also the road, for most part, was not very good. But both Sara and I enjoyed the drive. Because this by-road provided us the opportunity to see the hinterland of Bardhaman and Birbhum. We had never seen the interior of West Bengal before except while travelling through it by inter-city trains. So this drive enabled us to soak in the typicality of village life that was way different from what we encounter in the villages of Bangladesh. These people were poor. Clearly much poorer than the villages of eastern Bangladesh. There was no razzmatazz of department stores, eateries or fruit and provision shops on either side of the narrow village roads as one would see in Bangladeshi villages. After covering about a couple of kilometres, a bazaar appeared from nowhere which was devoid of colour, with very small shops selling indigenous sweets, a laundry and a tiny grocery. The most common sight was the abundance of water buffalos which, we guessed, were used to pull carts heavily laden with various kinds of goods. Poverty also was distinctively seen in the clothes of people in these villages and the physique of men, women and children.
What, however, came as a very pleasant surprise was how the villagers, particularly women, moved around with enormous freedom and confidence. If you stopped somewhere for a cup of tea, and asked them something, they would look you in the eye and answer back without fumbling or shyness. They also seemed, as it transpired through short conversations, to be sure of themselves. These village roads were devoid of heavy or light vehicular traffic. You would come across a bus that we called 'Murir Tin' in the good old days, full with passengers. There were a couple of rickshaws here and there. But the roads were full of bicycles. What impressed us most is the fact that most women travelling a distance on these roads were riding bicycles. They could be of any age. We have seen teenagers, youths and old women also riding bicycles without any hindrance. Very often one would find courtyards full of men and women busy in animated conversations full of fervour. The children were busy, merrily playing indigenous games with rudimentary equipment. They seemed truly liberated. I thought to myself that it was true that these villages were devoid of affluence. But their freedom and happiness more than offset their economic condition. These were hard-working happy people who were content with the income they had if it was commensurate with the kind of labour that they put every day.
By contrast, it would be impossible to see women on our affluent village roads. Even if you did come across some, they would be fully covered and moving very hesitatingly from one place to the other. Our roads are full with all kinds of vehicles and people do not even bother to walk a short distance. Somehow I was tempted to conclude that there was a lack of life that one would usually associate with free thinking people.
As we came closer to Shantiniketan, the sun had descended to the Western horizon. Evening was fast approaching the abode of Rabindranath. All off a sudden I discovered that the gloom of inadequacy of my past visit to Shantiniketan seemed a distant past. All men, women and children gleefully assembled on the streets, in the courtyards and in the university areas. They seemed to be content with themselves and their freedom, which seem so dear in our societies. May be Kobi Gurus magic wand still works in this different world.
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