A Story of unclassified tourists The Indian Villagers

An article by K.L Mohana Varma ( Published souvenir 1997)

A he picture of gasping,Inscrutable faces and the ageless Immobile looks of an assembly of village elders In Interior central India. hearing patiently to the exhortation of a Punjabi young officer explaining In chattisgarhi dialect that they should limit their progeny to two children simply because of the unrefutable reason that Lord Rama had limited himself to two, Lava and Kusha. is still In my memory.lt is my Indian VilIager. Deeply religious and illiterate, they know nothing except: that they are poor

They have dreams, but not in daylight when they look lonely forgotten, but at night Gathered in the mist around fires lit in the sympathetic darkness envoloping their hamlets, the grey wispy figures told stories or Just chatted and sang. The old tales Improvised by successive generations and passed on for centuries gave new colours to their dreams. Easily manipulated by cunnning political groups, they are still not aware that they are their own masters; They know that they are Indians and belong to a great country, Bharat Varsha. Hlndusthan. Nothing more. Their India is very small geographically.

I suddenly came across these villagers once again a few months back. As tourists. Quite unclassified. They were from a small village In West Bengal, travelling together in a railway compartment. I was really fascinated. I am Interested In history and as a writer, Inpeople, and naturally I travelled with both. It was a very touching experience. And It was through the pages of a book.

The book. Heatherwood's Third - class ticket, atravellogue - cum - narrative fiction, published by Routledge and Regan Paul, London, came to me by chance. Our late Xavier Arackal. member of parliament gave it to me. He knew my weakness and passion for the Indian village characters.The book was a tremendous experience.

Third - class ticket is the story of a remarkable journey made by fortyfive elderly villagers. men and women, an adventure made possible when their benevolent landowner died leaving her wealth in a trust fund to enable groups from the village to travel around India in a third class railway carriage. It was 1969. before socialism made another white-wash bv reneaming third class as second class. Theirs was the first batch. None of them had ever ventured outside. One or two had visited Calcutta before. But now they were seeing India. It was winter season, before planting time. They had special railway bogie.where they could sleep and a cook who could prepare bengali food.

They started from Calcutta to Benares, Samath. Khajuraho, Lucknow, Hardwar and Kashmir, then down to Chandigarh and Delhi. From Delhi, they travelled to Agra, Jaipur. Udaipur. Ahmedabad to Bombay. Across lo Ajantha and Ellora. Down to Hydera bad. Mysore. Halebid and Belur. Then up the hills to Ootty and down to coimbatore and to Cochin. To Kanyakumari.,Rameshwaram.Madres and Mahabalipuram.Then north to Purl. Konark and finally to Calcutta and their homes.

They. for the first time In generations, saw the shape of their dreams. They never could believe that there were places with temples, ruins and palaces they could visit and touch. They jostled with the truth that their Bharath was very big and very beautiful and very poor. And they found the confrontation with the world beyond their villagealarming and un setting.

Indian panorama when pictured raw and uncompromising is an unforgettable experience. The diverse characters and their responses and sympathy In unpredictable situations will make us guilty.

The villagers are not In any group of tourists yet.
But they haunt me. Why?

I was prone lo agree with cultivator Surendra. one of the group. He surmises.

The travel has bought: nothing but death and troubles: but when is the next trip?

And Kanyakumari.

After dawn. there were cries and angry bellowl from the buses. In a rush of bundles and pots, the villagers ran to the bus and scramble Into it.

Talks and loud noises.
Elder De said:
Hush. Surendra. let us dream again. The sea is Just turning to grey. It Is too early For talk.
Why Babla. in the village you would follow me to the fields In this light.True, but a bus and too much talk weary an old mart more than the plough.