Grazing Land
Author : Urmishree Bedamatta
Swadhin Pradhan always knew he was cut out for great things. He had a large head when he was born and everyone was sure he had great ideas in it. Born on the fifteenth of August some years after
Like a true soldier of his motherland, this destiny's child never missed a rally and always took part in picketing. For this he landed in lockup so often that his school once decided to rusticate him. ‘Gandhiji went to jail so many times. He was not a criminal,’ Swadhin replied when confronted by his principal. Why the principal with thirty-three years of experience of running a school could not say anything to this, we do not know. The boy continued and completed matriculation.
The elders of the village, clueless about his passion for such romps, smiled and said nothing like indulgent parents. With nothing to do and faculties refusing to be employed in active vocation, they always seemed to wait for the boy, who unfailingly erected for them a world where each had his rightful place. He was sure that such a day would come and that he would be the progenitor of such a world. ‘See this?’ he would say pointing to his head. ‘It is all here’. Those of his age had jobs to look after and, therefore, had no time to follow his dreams. But they did ask their wives about their brother who considered it his mission to educate the women about politics.
Today there was going to be a huge gathering at the village grazing lands in the afternoon. Netababu was coming to lay the foundation stone for a college. In times like these Swadhin felt an irresistible urge to romance his dreams. He would get desperate to reach the grazing fields and be one with himself. Once there, he would brook no interruption from any quarter. The vast expanse of the grassy land provided him a vision of himself as a man of unhindered aptitude. In a flash he conjured up images of himself as the sarpanch, an MLA, an MP…but winced before going further.
Excited about the sudden spate of possibilities that now seemed to be bared open in front of him, he rushed home and pulled out the aluminum chest from under his bed. The chest bore thick sliding marks on its undersurface because of repeated journeys out from under the bed and back. Its contents had been subjected to Swadhin's frequent darshans spurring consequent daydreaming about him being a white-robed leader. Now he felt an instinctive need to feel the polyester cotton kurta on his body. Big mothballs that had been sneaked into the folds had vanished. The cloth had been heated such that pronounced ridges formed along the length of the kurta. Out also came the pyjamas and the tri-coloured angabastra. There was the Gandhian cap too but it had to be saved for a later and better day. Locking the chest and making it lighter by a fourth of his dreams he shoved it inside. He then walked to his friend's studio shop for a full-length shot - head held high, hands tied across a puffed up chest and legs astride.
A day later, he was everywhere, on every wall of some worth in the village. Now, he had lots to do. Soon, a meeting was called at the village chaupal.
‘Listen, this is the first time after independence that a minister is visiting our area. How do you think this happened? Nothing is hidden from their eyes. They know who is doing what. They are not our maibaap for nothing. They saw how I have been working as a dedicated soldier of the party. I may have failed my exams but you have to lose something to gain something. I hope you know that whatever I am doing is for you, for the village. So tell me your problems and I will put them before Netababu. He is a kind soul, a great man. He will do all he can for us’. As usual, the meeting was attended by the old, the women and the children. The first class of citizens had problems, which they knew would outlive them and so preferred to keep quiet. The children did not have any and even if they had, they knew that neither Swadhin bhai nor Netababu could do anything about it. Children are a bonded lot. Their secrets mainly remain within the group. The women had a grave problem. They threatened to abandon the hearth if brother did not do anything about it. ‘Where will our cattle go? That is the only outing they have. It is their land. And what use is your politics if you cannot do anything for the dumb creatures’?
Soon the village boys were asked to align themselves in cadres, girls were asked to prepare buntings, the women had to stack up lemons and rasna. The elders were told to clean up and come to the ground with their best attire on.
‘Brothers and sisters...’
‘Babuji, did you tell the minister about our problem’?
‘Arre, ministerji has so many important things to do. Still, I talked to him. He said one thing. Always look into the future. If you have a college here, your children will study and become great men. Then you will not even need such grazing lands because you will not need to rear cattle ’.
Swadhin nodded vehemently, satisfied that Netababu was right and happy that he no more had to break the cordon and bother the great man for nothing. ‘These women do not understand,’ he thought. ‘All that matters to them is their cattle and the hearth. God only knows what will happen to our children’.
Despite all his dreams, Swadhin never grew out of a self-consciousness, which stopped him from making a headlong plunge into the sea of politics. Whether he had it in him or not, time would tell. He was always waiting for an opportune moment, an issue that would at once propel him to the frontline. He wanted to look like a ‘born’ politician, one who has risen from dust.
There were days when he did not need an issue to walk in a rally or pick up a fight. Nor was he then conscious of his image. He remembered how he planned a power cut in three neighbouring villages because his friends did not get roles in the annual jatra play, how anxious he was to walk in a rally raising the flag and shout himself hoarse for the larger interests of his people. For Swadhin, walking in a rally then was glamorous. It brought to his mind pictures of the days of the Raj. Passers-by stopped to hear them, onlookers sympathised with them and idlers envied them for having so much to do. But such rally walking did him more harm than good. He made himself unpopular among teachers and failed the college exam. An advice from a friend made him change his track. ‘You will get nowhere without a degree’. Swadhin promptly enrolled for BA in political science. He later regretted it though, for the subject talked nothing of politics, as he knew it.
The boy grew up to be a man by the time he finished his studies at the university level. Politics now was not stone throwing, or rally walking but taking a stand on things. With that comes prestige and admiration. But for some reason or the other the things on which Swadhin took a stand never seemed to hold for long, much like the grazing land thing.
‘Hey boys, why do you think I paid you? Can’t you clap? And where are the drinks? Don’t you see how thirsty Netababu is? Come on, come on…hey, what is that herd doing here? Go drive them out’.
‘We got them here. They haven’t been out since yesterday evening and are very hungry’.
‘Who asked you to get them here’?
No answer.
By now the herd had treated itself to rasna and along with it the plastic cups. Nothing would scare them off now. They were on their own land. The dais on which Netababu sat was splashed with dung. Whether some of it landed on Netababu or not nobody saw. When we last heard of Swadhin he was thinking of setting up a commission of village boys to investigate the matter.
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