Bamboo Bridge

There was an unknown village on the border of two states. Three sides of the village were surrounded by dense forest. On the fourth side flowed a wide river, and across it lay the bustling city. A bamboo bridge connected the two worlds—a fragile lifeline, rebuilt every year, washed away every monsoon.

Nearly eight hundred families lived in the village—around two and a half thousand people in all. Most of them were farmers, and food shortages were rare. The river provided everything: water for crops, for drinking, for washing. The villagers worshipped it as a mother.

But this very river was also their greatest obstacle. It cut them off from the outside world. The forest hemmed them in on three sides, and the city was accessible only by crossing the river. To study, to seek treatment, to buy or sell goods—everyone had to risk the bamboo bridge or, in the rains, wooden boats. Children slipped, sick patients trembled, yet there was no alternative.

The villagers had pleaded for years with the Sarpanch, but no government listened. After all, how many votes could a border village offer?

One day, a letter arrived from the MLA. He would visit on Sunday. The Sarpanch was overjoyed. At last, the MLA will cross our bridge. He will see with his own eyes, and then he will recommend a permanent one.

Preparations began in full swing. On the far bank, temporary tents were set up. Food was cooked, flower garlands prepared, a team gathered to receive the MLA.

On the appointed day, the MLA arrived. A long garland was draped around his neck. The bamboo bridge groaned under the crowd, but somehow everyone made it across safely. The Sarpanch gave his welcome speech, and the MLA followed with his own: how deeply he cared for the people, how tirelessly he worked for their welfare.

Then came the feast—pulao, dal, khata, and mutton. After eating well, the MLA assured them that the bridge would be built “very soon.” The villagers cheered as he departed.

For a moment, there was hope. The MLA indeed proposed the bridge through the rural development department. The block officer even drafted a letter to the central government—only to forget sending it. The paper lay buried in a dusty file for six months, until a new officer stumbled upon it and finally forwarded it.

The state department ordered a survey. Notices were sent. But when the results came, a new obstacle appeared: the other end of the bridge would land in another state. Central permission was required. Negotiations dragged on. Months passed. The bamboo bridge was built, washed away, built again.

Then election season came. The MLA returned, asking once more for votes. The bridge still stood only in promises. Over his iPhone, he called officers, who repeated: “Since two states are involved, we need central approval. Otherwise, it may create border disputes.”

The election came and went. The MLA won again. Four years passed. His son returned from abroad and joined politics. Ministers came and went. Files moved, promises repeated, nothing changed.

And the villagers? They built their bamboo bridge each year, watched it float away each monsoon, and built it again. Children crossed it for school, patients crossed it for hospitals, farmers crossed it with sacks of grain.

The bamboo bridge remained—not just a crossing of wood and rope, but a symbol of forgotten people, trapped between forest, river, and empty words.