By the bank of the Kasai Ganga

On the outskirts of a Bengal village; at the bank of Kasai Ganga

Kids hang about grazing their cows and goats. Some adults at times lustily break into full-throated songs. A workman cuts up some wood for our cooking and a few kids extend their expert helping hands. A youthful do-gooder has done a bit of cleaning up of the temple’s flowerbeds and walks to the river bare-bodied, soap in hand.

A shallow but long and quiet wide Kasai river flows on the outskirts. Many villagers bathe there. A sizable school building, which has a good library and two computers stand imposingly in the middle of the village. A public library lies next to an open auditorium.

In all, an idyllic, picturesque setting, enough to warm my poetic cockles and launch me into an attempt at poetic prose.

Now, beauty is only skin-deep, it is said. I get inside the skin of this village.

I notice that while it is not too much undeveloped, neither is it much developed. It is a typical present day Bengal village that remains in its stagnant self unless a series of lucky circumstances happen to move it forward.

The kids who hang about are either school dropouts or never been to school kids. The workman who cuts wood for us will perhaps not find work tomorrow. He may have to furtively dip into his wife’s interest free, piggy (or rather rice-potty) bank. The computers in the school remain mostly idle even when the power supply happens too be on. The computer teacher absconds after drawing up his salary. Perhaps he finds better business elsewhere. The borrowing of books in the library is left to the natural curiosity of the children than any encouragement by the reluctant librarian. Many times more worms visit and take to the books in the public library than the members of the public. The tranquil cows that graze the lush rain-fed grass, have to become tricky thieves egged on by their not-so-innocent herds and try to crash into the temple’s fences and reach the well-tended plants within, intruding violently upon the placid meditations of the poetic monk residing there. The lusty songsters happen to be drunkards too. Some drink out of boredom and some perhaps to fill their, not too full a belly. The folks who bathe in the river go there for its less cold flowing water, as it is less hard on their skins. They have perhaps heard of electric water heaters but few have seen one. The do-gooder remains content with hanging about doling out his little goodies. One would like to see more verve and go-getterness in him.

The whole picture becomes off-colour and the writing more prosaic.

But it is said, real beauty is deep within.

Deeper still, a stream of Spirit flows. Its water gleams when the eldest able-bodied mother of the family blows the conch of thanksgiving at day’s end and surrenders to God. Its waters spring out of the underground in spontaneous joy and abandon at national festivals of gods. Boats float in the stream. But most remain tethered to the bedrock. Their navigators are still in a daze after waves after giant waves have passed over them. They have arisen and are paddling but not awakened enough to raise the anchor, which has served its purpose. A few have awakened and raised their anchors but only those individuals who steer their boats in the direction of the current go places. Those who labour against the current, sometimes make a heroic picture but remain where they are.

Amidst the sluggish, teeming mass, one sees the freshness of fighting life forms here and there. There is a struggling author who wants desperately to make it big. There is an old man who trudges along, rain or shine, ill or well, many times alone, to the temple, to do his laboured singing. If ten youths pass their time playing cards, before they pass into old age and pass away, there are five who found a society of the living and toil to wake up the village.

Amidst the morass of dead of dying leaves, there are these spirited, living seeds and sprouts. The leaves do their bit to fertilize the earth for the living.

A hundred and odd years ago, a wandering seer monk saw the seeds that were buried still deeper. He started cleaning the grounds and clearing up the stream too.

Old Mother Bharati! Young India has taken up your baton. Welcome India that is Bharat! Vande Mataram!

Swami Sampurnananda; Lalgarh; 11 Dec. 2003; 1 p.m. kuthia veranda