Of Famine, Flies and Fate

This is not a story. What follows is a true account of events.

The day on which the earth at the bottom of our village pond – Purnibandh, turned dry was the day our fortunes did so too. And thus, our village of six score people-men, women and children got plunged into a long struggle for water. For the last two months, people were rationed for water so much that they had to apply it on their bodies like lotion. The grimy mud lying at the marshy bottom of the pond was our life essence. But soon that was gone too. A single tube well marks the centre of our small village. An hour-long workout flinging one’s entire body weight over and over into it draws half a bucket of water. If one were to stand under the hot sun in the long queue for the tube well from morning till afternoon leaving aside all household chores, one could get a bucket or two of water. And that much is barely enough for cooking and drinking for the family. Where else does one get water for bathing, washing, cleaning, and for other daily chores...?

The result? A palpably unpleasant stench emanates from everyone’s body due to not cleaning themselves up – not for a day or two, but for months altogether. It is hard to say with certainty whether it was because of the stench, but from somewhere enormous swarms of flies landed into our village. And with them an endless buzzing noise – as if there’s relentless chanting of God’s name going on all over the place. At first, we would keep our eatables in covered containers– grains, fruits, vegetables and the like,

to save them from the flies. We had to upturn the polished bronze ware holding flowers meant for worship to shield them and drape our newborn babies in cloth to protect them. People wondered if all the flies from all over the world have congregated in our village? We were afraid to open our mouths to even talk during the daytime, lest we swallow a bunch of flies. We heard that once someone dared to open his mouth to talk and an army of flies stuffed him down from his mouth till his guts. Ever since then it is just sign language during the day and all chitchat happens during the night. The terror of flies has got everyone tongue-tied.

When the first swarm arrived, some people rejoiced upon seeing them up in the sky. “Look at that massive dark rain cloud! It will pour down now and wipe our pain away!”, they exclaimed in happiness. They sang childhood rhymes welcoming the beloved monsoon rains and danced holding marigold garlands while chanting God’s name. But to everyone’s surprise, slowly the cheerful afternoon turned to gloomy dusk as they soon discovered millions of flies swarming all over the place.

In spite of that, our lives and livelihoods survived. With mouths and heads trapped shut while darkness resembling night remained everywhere round the clock, people kept going on with their daily chores. Brothers would still take their feuds over land, property and possessions to the police. Lawyers would still run errands to the courts for their clients’ justice. Families would mortgage their farmlands to bribe village officers to coax them into giving permits to dig wells in their backyards. After digging, they

would begin their endless, but not hopeless wait for the miracle of water to happen. Some folks in the village would often hold night-long prayer meetings, discussing and debating their MLA’s upcoming visit, only to return to their homes at dawn with smiles on their faces. Several times, they would carry back their chairs and table, the garlands and the incense sticks and the fresh coconuts they volunteered for the MLA’s planned visit.

A gathering of the village folk was organized once. Sukru and Dugru said: (in sign language for the flies would barge in if mouths are opened) “We say, there’s a ritual of appeasement we must perform to deal with these flies. Catch a fly and then apply the holy vermilion and kohl on it. Gather sever untorn and pristine leaves of bael, seven of holy basil and seven of dahana. Then fold these twenty-one leaves into a pocket and place the anointed fly in it. Light up some incense sticks and lamps in front of it. Now, complete with some sweets and savouries for the bhog, worship the fly chanting the names of all our gods, goddesses and the holy spirits. At last, prostrate yourself in front of It and carry the pocket carefully with both hands and walk at least a mile without your chappals in the direction of our village cremation ground. Let go of

the sacred leaf pocket over there and scurry back without looking over your shoulders. You’ll see, the same day all this fly menace will be gone for good!”

Our village priest adds: (of course with gestures, even the priest won’t dare open his mouth): “Sixty maan of pure cow ghee will be needed so we perform a havan in the name of Goddess Chamundaa and chant the Maha Mrutyunjay mantra all night long. As the holy smoke from the havan will rise up the sky, with it - these flies, our sins, this injustice, these evil vibes- they all will free us from their clutches.”

Just as the old astrologer was preparing to follow up with something, Haribul the village barber who was seated at the back runs to the centre of the gathering. He’s a self-acclaimed poet, but unfortunately, stutters a little. But he’s never someone to back down from putting forth his point. In spite of these menacing flies, he clasps his hands over his mouth and speaks: “My dddear brothers, my juhaar to you all. I am fffrom the servant class. I will now utter something bbbig from my lowly mouth. I say, only if you ooopen your mouth will the flies get inside, but if one sssprays words like bbbullets what can these damn flies do to us! Let us get tttogether someday - the entire village fffolk at one place. With my chanting, I will drive away all these flies from our village. I say, what is a fly, bo?

For my body odour, you’re a fly;

For your body odour, I am a fly.

When you think of it, you wonder –

The entire village has no people;

Flies, flies and flies – wherever you look!”

We all burst into muffled laughter on hearing Haribul’s horrible poetry. But it was the old man Memer, who made a gesture to ask: “And what about water?”

“And what about water? There’s wwwater too. Ppplenty of it, I say! See, it is only Pppurnibandh’s earth that has cracked open, but dddon’t you think there’s wwwater underneath? If we all join our hands and spade after spade dddig below it, there will be ppplenty of water for all! However, if we wait that sssomeday someone will send mmmoney from Bhubaneswar, then sure! Let’s wwwait for fffive years to pass!”

* * *

Twenty years have passed since that night and the village has changed with it. We have changed too. It has rained from time to time and with it, our crops have fared well at times. Our Purnibandh has seen blossoms of lilies. Recently we have seen a few shoots of lotus leaves and flowers too. But the flies have made our village their home. That fated year when they first arrived, tankers full of water had thronged our village and delivered water from door to door. That happens every day even now. If there are no water tankers on any day, the kitchens are shut and so is our cleaning and washing up.

For drinking water, we have stocks of water packaged into plastic pouches. For some, it’s not just the water pouches that have arrived from the city, it’s also the intoxicating ones– a supply of pouches for the nights.

Empty pouches of both kinds lay scattered all around the village.

“Why is the Sarkar bhagwaan so generous towards us, bo?”, at times asks Haribul, the barber. No one in the whole village could fathom what begets these generous gifts of sacks of rice, pairs of shoes, scores of umbrellas and blankets. They say - go for pilgrims, go to hospitals, go to schools, go to cremation grounds – wherever you go, the government pays.

Haribul ponders aloud, at times, “Where is the Sarkar getting all these from, shouldn’t it be taking them from people like us? It must be selling this country somehow or does it carry huge debts that pay for this generosity? What are we providing to our Sarkar, anyway? Cast a vote every five years to say run us for the next five! And what not is the hapless Sarkar providing us with? Only God knows, how poor Sarkar manages all this for us while also footing its own bills of food, fuel and others...”. Haribul has become so old and senile these days that hardly anyone understands him anymore with all of his stutterings.

Haribul’s son Jagan has set up a hair salon at the end of the village. There’s no more barter of chores or of grains going on in the village. If one wants a haircut or a shave, you must pay with cash. The village priest’s son Padmann has also set up a broiler chicken shop next to the hair salon. Earlier we would get meat only when the village folk would all come to an agreement and slaughter a goat together, for there was no way to store rest of the meat if enough people don’t join. But now, whenever you desire, this village has chicken meat to offer you from this store. Sukru’s son has also set up an ingenious shop next to the chicken shop: puffed rice mixed with mutton stew. Shell out fifteen rupees and you get a handful of puffed rice with a small bowl of stew, complete with four pieces of mutton. It’s so convenient when you have unannounced guests or visitors at home – a quick run to the village-end is all you need to entertain them. A few more shops have also opened at the village-end. You can get paan in the paan shop, where you can also get the two types of pouches (the day one and night one). The shop next door has a guy who recharges your mobile phone plans and also sells lottery tickets to the village folks. They say, you just have to meet your luck once in it and life will be set. Everyone in the village still waits for their turn, it seems. These days, there’s a hustle and bustle of people at the village-end till late at night. Even our village is turning into a city.

Earlier this year in the month of Kartik, Haribul passed away on the day of the 11th moon.

Throughout the village, you could hear hoolahuli because of the holy month’s puja rituals. Folks of the village congratulated Haribul and his family. They said, “What a relief for the poor soul! And that too on this holy day!”

Just on that day, Hazaroo had said: “I don’t know if you all have noticed this but Haribul used to go for a bath in the Purnibandh daily, all months of the year – no matter how the weather is. He would take a dalaa with him as well. And every day during his bath, he would stand at the waist-deep water and remove a bowl full of soil from the bottom of the pond. Carefully, he would carry the wet soil to the banks of the pond and mould it into a Shivalinga. There was neither incense sticks nor camphor-fragrant lamps nor was there any bhog, but after finishing his bath Haribul would worship the Shivalinga at the pond’s bank every day. He would stand up for a while with his hands folded together and then would prostrate himself in front of it. After that, with great difficulty, he would hoist up the dalaa full of now partially dry soil up

to his shoulders and carry it back towards the village. On his way back, wherever he would notice any cracks, dents or potholes in the path, he would unload a bit of the soil to fill it up. One day I couldn’t hold myself any longer. I asked him, ‘hayebo, you’re doing a good public service to all but don’t you think it is strange that you set up a Shivalinga God, pray and worship him and then put that God on the path we walk, under our feet? You must take us as fools, right? We accumulate all the sins of walking on God and you collect all the good deeds of worshipping him?’ Haribul had burst out into stutter-filled laughter that day and said to me, ‘I have received a divine call in my dreams, to unload soil from Purnibandh onto our village pathway. God is everywhere – people, pathways and river banks. No matter what you step on, you are always stepping on God’s head. You see, this is the only way for us to get rid of the fly menace from the village, understood? We have to do it ourselves, whatever we can do. If we wait for the sarkar sir, we will get more and more entangled in the web of this pain and many others to come for the next generations’.”

Hazaroo had drawn a deep long breath after finishing the story. Then uttered, “Poor chap, he didn’t die rather he got relieved of these worldly duties and chores.”

And today, with hands folded together Haribul’s son Jagannath Barik visits house after house in the village and utters the same words: “We are from the servant class and for generations, we have been serving this village and its people. My father saw a single dream all his life, that the village gets rid of this fly menace. That each one of us has the purity of our minds and souls restored. Purnibandh would hold crystal clear water in it, with endless blossoms of lotus flowers. For twenty years, my poor father, in his capacity was removing soil from the bottom of Purnibandh, only to put it on our village pathways to make them smooth and easy to walk on for everyone. My dear brothers, please give me a chance, please give me your vote and make me your Sarpanch and see how this village will see its golden days restored. There will be no fights, squabbles, violence or jealousy any more. Your households will be filled with money and riches. If only, I have your blessing and the resolve from my father’s unfulfilled dream...”

Everyone says Jagan will win the election. And why not? Ten goons have arrived in our village from the city of Balangir in a big SUV. The party has given him one lakh rupees and the liquor godown in the nearby town has been notified by the MLA sir. All the boys and men of the village have set up a stage at the village-end for last five days. They have their loudspeakers turned on and pointed right towards the village. A resounding slogan fills the air:

“Jagannath Barik... Jindabaad.... Jindabaad.

Vote for... Dalaa symbol... Daala symbol...”

* * *

To no one’s surprise, Jagan won the election. There was fun, frolic and feast at all ends of the village for three days. About two months later, we learnt that the government has announced a sum of ten lakh rupees for our village welfare – to clear the mud and clay from the bed of Purnibandh. Everyone congratulated and blessed Jagannath. They said, Sarpanch should be like this – last twenty years has seen at least five-six Sarpanchs but no one could do what our Jagannath has accomplished. In mere two months of his election, he got us so much money!

And then, we saw:

Jagannath running around, travelling to Bhubaneswar for party work...

Jagannath running around, travelling to Balangir for liquor work...

Jagannath running around, travelling to our village block for land work...

He would return home at odd hours of the night, sometimes with his gang of eight-nine men with him. They would feast and party at the village-end till the break of dawn, the whole village would shudder at their bursts of laughter and music. And then some days, you could hear the rattling roar of Jagannath’s new motorbike during the sultry afternoons, drowning out the collective chants of grasshoppers. When can one meet Sarpanch Jagannath? Only if you meet him, can one ask him of the mud clearing for the village pond!

Days passed by. The auspicious months of marriage ceremonies passed by and so did the months of picking mahul and the months of plucking kendu leaves. Again, Purnibandh’s water started to turn murkier. When will be the mud clearing, no one knows. Is it today or will it be tomorrow, next week – the question on everyone’s mind. When asked, apparently Jagannath Sarpanch says: “Do you think it’s like the old times that we would have a horde of people removing the mud spade after spade and lines of workers carrying the removed mud off the banks on their shoulders dalaa after daala? You’ll see – big excavation machines will come. Ten-fifteen of them would need to be here only for a single day. Four large pumps will first dry off the Purnibandh completely and then the machines will dig in a few hours – pits of twenty, thirty, forty, fifty feet. And you will then see, the crystal clear water that lies underneath the murky surface of Purnibandh. You’ll see...just wait for it. Sadly, MLA sir doesn’t have the time right now to join us for the ceremony. He is visiting foreign countries because he is not keeping well. Let him come back from his tours – twenty years have passed, what’s a few days and weeks more, huh?”

And now, there’s muffled gossips and bubbling excitement across the village since they heard the day after the rath yatra will be the mud clearing ceremony. Everyone in the village discussed and agreed upon a new name for the pond – it will be called Haribul Bandh. The able men of the village got together to organize the ceremony – how the MLA and ministers will be welcomed in the village, how should the food be arranged and so on. The women folk agreed to sweep, clean and polish the floors and walls of their homes and light a large earthen lamp at their doorstep along with all other puja ritual symbols – the Kalash21, incense sticks and camphor. The MLA and ministers will have a procession throughout the village from door to door, their feet being washed at each home as a sign of respect and welcome. The Sarpanch says, “Don’t worry about the money. A dream of crystal clear deep water in our Purnibandh has been our dream of so many years, let us not leave any stones unturned for the ceremony.”

On the day of the ceremony, we all joined the procession and reached the banks of Purnibandh. One couldn’t hear one as the air reverberated with endless slogans of raised voices shouting “Jindabaad... Jindabaad...”. A makeshift stage was set up one of the pond’s banks, ornate with the endless garlands of plastic leaflets with party symbol on them. The background of the stage had a huge larger than life poster with portraits of the party’s state chief, ministers and MLAs – their relative sizes following the party hierarchy. On one corner of the stage, a small low-rise table was decorated with shiny satin table cloth and petals of flowers. It had a small plastic framed photo of the village deity Maa Samaleswari and next to her was Haribul’s photo. Coconuts were broken at the bottom of the table and incense sticks and lamps were offered to them.

Soon after, the minister rose up to speak about the party. Our MLA followed him and criticised the opposition party folks. And finally, Jagannath Sarpanch rose to speak about our village: “... For generations, this village has been waiting for someone to come and save us, change us for good, reform us. Today, our Sarkar has come for that.... (Jagannath was speaking with long pauses, perhaps he is still drunk, perhaps speaking in front of such a large audience is causing him to tremble so much)... Today, our Sarkar has arrived in this village bringing with them crystal clear water... bringing with them countless dreams of prosperity...”

Right at that moment, everyone’s stared with gaping mouths as flames appeared out of nowhere on one side of the stage. The lamp lit on the small table first caught the plastic frame and photo of Haribul on fire, from there to Maa Samleswari’s photo and in a matter of moments - the many garlands of party flags caught fire and with it the flex banner behind the stage was raging with fire – ministers, MLAs – everyone’s photo was on fire. Within seconds, the entire stage was engulfed in towering flames. In all the commotion that followed immediately, the meeting got disbanded with the minister and the MLA fleeing the scene in their motorcades within a minute or so.

And while the villagers walked back to their homes confused and speechless, it started pouring down. It poured for three days and three nights in a row. Purnibandh was filled till brim with crystal clear water.

And since that day, we have not seen Sarpanch Jagannath. We heard, he lives in Balangir now in his new big house. Once in a while he drives his SUV to his office in our village, but never stays long.

And in the village, we have more swarms of flies brought in with the rains– millions and millions of them, constantly buzzing all over the place. Whenever the topic of Purnibandh crops up in a conversation,

people talk among themselves in gestures:

“Maa Samaleswari couldn’t stand these lies, her wrath burned like a fire that day...”

“All of this is doing of the opposition party people...”

“The party people themselves sabotaged the whole thing ... to launder more money...”

“Where do you think Jagan’s new house come from?”

“Politics in the name of good soul Haribul? His spirit couldn’t tolerate it...being the Shiva devotee he was, his spirit burned everything down to ashes!”

* * *