by Dr. Pragya Suman
I passed through that way continuously for two years. That place which bore that spot was open around in every direction. Greenfields was a proper place for cows, calves, and other beasts grazing. Red bricks were stacked and erected in a withering state, some stumbled upon the land, twigs of peepal plants emerging out between two bricks gave that place a deep delipidated look.
Once a day I decided to stop there. I saw it was about 2 PM. In the open sun, I sat at the bottom brick which was devoid of its column. An old man was also there, at first I caught his raucous rebuking tone. Few urchins with rustic looks were pissing at the wall of relics. “Get lost, damn! The old man tried to chase them with a slithering gate. Urchins ran away chortling, giggling, and pummelling each other. That was fun for them but the dilemma of the old man! When the old man returned, sat beside me and began to smoke bidi (small hand-rolled cigarettes) against the overhead sun. For a moment his grumpy look subsided and with a deadpan gaze, he noticed me.
“I am posted in a nearby block as a revenue clerk, came here to rummage ..out of curiosity.” I said.
A Puff of smoke out of his mouth blurred my vision.
Tales of my ancestors began to descend one by one.
‘Once upon a time, there was a LAL SAHAB (honourable Red man ), who used to live here with his wife. They lived in a mansion and nearby was a panoply of much-storeyed housing which was for revenue collection. Whenever they came riding on horses fear was in the air. Everybody rushed to hide after hearing hoofs. That day agriculture of Neel (indigo) was in great demand. It made that place a laboratory for the first experiment of satyagraha (insistence upon truth). Gandhi rode in a catalytic way after movement in this place. Everything seemed in the air.
Tales of grandfather, mother’s childish fear of rider and Gandhi. A wisp of grass in fields which couldn’t be smuggled out by poor labourers so piercing prying eyes were of Lal sahab’s staff. Each pebble of India was in their notice.
‘Look, it is not amazing that in the British regime the sun never set. They were champions. My grandfather used to tell it with a praised tone layered with an eerie touch.
“Where have you lost “?
I awoke out of my ancestor’s stories.
The old man had smoked and threw its butt on the relicked red floor. He was staring at me.
“Nothing, what’s time ?” I asked the old man?
“I don’t know.”
A silence stretched between us, alienated in squared-off fabric.
I returned, leaving behind red bricks, lal sahab, Gandhi, and pissing urchins.
About the Author:
Dr. Pragya Suman is a doctor by profession and an award-winning author from India. Recently she won the Gideon poetry award for the poem in her debut book Lost Mother. Her second book Photonic Postcard which is a collection of prose poems is published by Ukiyoto Publishing, Canada.