PARIJAT-13

John was delighted to see Debudada at the construction site. It was one of that scorching afternoons when sands of river glare towards you in brightness. In the soft sands of river Debudada finds it difficult to walk. His portly body and the heart elements make the things still difficult. He grasped for breaths as he walks on sands in slightly limping style. But he exudes enthusiasm of a child. Hands wide spread to balance that bulkiness, his short neck keeps his head slightly bent back and it makes Debudada more lovable with that wide smile. He almost fell on John as his lunges forward to embrace him. John carries a lot of respect for this portly and funny figure, full of energy and characters. A man in his mid sixty, still he travels a lot; a tight fisted person who cares for penny. He does not know what luxury is and makes most of the facilities available in the cheapest third class train compartment while traveling. He does not hire hotel to stay in his place of business. He finishes of everything in the train and comes to place of work and goes back by night train. He loves train. He loves traveling. He says he finds India in that third class compartment of train. A man of utmost honesty and principle has worked for John as a shuttering contractor in many construction sites in the past. Off late he had stopped working for his bad health. He carries the sophistication of an eastern Indian, very polished in his approach.

John was little surprised to find him in the construction site. A veteran of a social and political cum armed peasant movement that commenced sometimes in 1967 at a remote village of eastern India, Debudada has seen both sides of the coin. He smiles and breathes hard and gives a confused look when somebody reminds him his role in the movement, the bullet marks in his arm still carries the story. Yes, till today he is still in confusion. He scratches his head. Hmmn-----, whether that arm struggle has yielded any results! Was it required? Was the violence only means to achieve the desired goals? What is the justification for the blood shed of hundreds of innocents? Madness, shear madness! Debudada admits that when he breathes slowly under his nostrils.

Debudada has occupied the only chair where John was sitting. Massive concreting work is going on. It is mass concreting of foundation; it will continue beyond mid night, may be to the early morning of next day. John could hardly hear Debudada amongst the deafening sound of concrete pumps, the continuously rotating mixture drums and vibration sound of concrete pipe when it touches the edge of steel shuttering plates as concrete is poured over the reinforcement cage. Debudada looks still funny when he talks sitting from chair. His massive belly protrudes up and tremors as he talks in a loud voice. The legs of steel chair are going down in the soft river sand by the weight of Debudada. He is asking John regarding the details of project.

The concreting work is progressing fast. John has preferred and decided to sit throughout the concreting work. His juniors are competent to supervise that work. They have requested him several times in the past not to sit late night near the concreting work. John has never answered them. He has smiled in his own style. His juniors knew that it was smile of disapproval and disagreement over what they say and request. It was not a question of competency. It was a question of reassurance. John always believes in principle of working with the juniors. Delegation is desirable. It is necessary. Delegation with power and responsibility is always welcome for desired productivity and out put. It brings the best out of juniors. He grows under the lightness of responsibility. He grows with the buoyancy of responsibility. Responsibility never wears you down as long as you desire to grow. Delegate but show your face in hard times. It gives a pleasure and reassurance to the juniors. Be present in hard time and difficult time. Juniors never feel let down. It brings the best out of him. It is team work where your junior is the leader; where he banks upon the tones of your experience. The mere presence has a meaning. It is more than being mere.

The metal halide light has been switched on. The construction site is flooded with light. It smiles like an oasis in the mid of desert. It is dark night of river bank. Sounds of machineries are more apparent. Debudada has dozed off that chair. John is yet to know the reason behind his arrival. It has become almost two years since Debudada has decided to wind up his business. He had worked enough. He wanted to join the seniors in his family in the never ending game of cards while smoking cigar in the court yard of his ancestral house. It was a mansion in the only metropolis of eastern India. He lives with his family of three generation comprising of twenty eight members. It is rare and unbelievable in modern era when the nucleus of family is becoming smaller and smaller, lighter and lighter as days move on. The concept joint family is lost in village too. John had laughed aloud in disbelief when Debudada told him about his joint family of three generation. But he was compelled to bite back his laugh midway through when he saw the seriousness in Debudada’s face. That serious look on Debudada’s face was enough for John to understand that he is not hearing any story. It is a rare reality. But John could never comprehend how a man nurtured and grown under the concept of togetherness can take part in a disjointed movement which shook the very base of humanity with its evil design and killing spree. Debudada had tried to explain John when he visited Debudada’s home. Everything is not disjointed and violent in the beginning. It is the repression of a new thought and new ideology which begets hatred and violence. The established never gives way to the new. It is power, the hunger for power and supremacy which rules the roost. Never ever prepared to come down from the throne of supremacy. It begets hatred in name of race, region, look, culture and religion. It creates the concept of my God is better than your God. My race is superior to your race. My color is more pleasing and beautiful than your color. John has listened to Debudada with attention of student ever eager to learn. But Debudada has never answered him when John has asked that question. Does it justify the unnecessary blood shed and innocent killings? Debudada has always tried to hide his face. He has never looked John directly. Down in the lane of memory perhaps Debudada sees something. Cries of the innocents. Red bloods of the innocents so similar to his own. It is feelings and pains of the innocent so similar to his own. Does a lighter skin bear less pain than a darker skin when it is hurt? Do different religions beget different feeling when you are hungry? Do different ideologies realize different pains when we suffer from incurable? Then with all that similarity why we are separated? John could hear only heavy and disturbed breathes. Debudada had no answer.

John looked to the dozing Debudada in that floodlight of construction sight. A tired and defeated look was prevalent in dozing postures of old man. The old man got up from the mosquito’s bite of river bed, looked to his watch. He whispered to John, “I want you tell you something John. Do you need a shuttering contractor at your site? I have resumed my business”. John was little surprised. He saw Debudada is turning his face away from him the same way when he faces that disturbing question. From the corner of that turning face he sees something rolling and glittering down his check. A shivering fatty hand bearing the mark of that bullet handed over something to John. The hand that had once welded gun, shivering and drowning under the weight of a small packet as if it carries the weight of an era, an age, a burden unbearable enough.

John took the packet. He feels something unusual as he opens the packet. His heart speeding up. An unknown and frightening feeling is slowly and surely engulfing him. He shivers like the hand of Debudada. The cover of the packet has fallen down. His both hands carry two photos separately. A young man in his twenties so charming and so handsome staring him from that photo with agility of a prince. The other photo bears the unbearable scene of that recent bomb blast in the train, a blood strained isolated hand near the railway track. Chintaharan, the old man whispered still turning his face. Chintaharan, the name so familiar to John, he might have heard that from Debudada’s mouth at least hundred times.

John looked up. The life has turned full circle. In the dark sky of midnight he sees stars, glittering stars changing position , reassembling themselves to form a figure, the figure so assuring, so Godly. He is Bapu. He is Mahatma. MAHATMA GANDHI, THE FATHER OF NATION, THE FATHER OF NON VIOLENCE.

Parijats, have you forgotten!