(Names of Bodo (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bodo_people) characters have been changed for obvious reasons)
The answer came to me in front of a camp fire one evening, when my friend and guide Sunny told me his story.
It's been a few years since Help Tourism and Sabyasachi Chakraborty had put their respective resources together to transform a lot of what was lost. The same som plantation where Chakraborty and his family had stayed in a camp, now has four thatched huts—Bodo style. Built of bamboo and mud, and raised on stilts, they look pretty fragile from outside. Inside, there's a double bed, clean sheets, a bed side table, a centre table, carpeted wooden floors, solar powered lights, an attached toilet with a decent shower, tiled floors and a WC that actually flushes. You get warm fresh food at the canteen, run by the local youths.
The answer came to me in front of a camp fire one evening, when my friend and guide Sunny told me his story.
It's been a few years since Help Tourism and Sabyasachi Chakraborty had put their respective resources together to transform a lot of what was lost. The same som plantation where Chakraborty and his family had stayed in a camp, now has four thatched huts—Bodo style. Built of bamboo and mud, and raised on stilts, they look pretty fragile from outside. Inside, there's a double bed, clean sheets, a bed side table, a centre table, carpeted wooden floors, solar powered lights, an attached toilet with a decent shower, tiled floors and a WC that actually flushes. You get warm fresh food at the canteen, run by the local youths.
The tourist huts at the Som plantation (pic courtesy: http://www.helptourism.com/)
You get warm water for your bath, delivered at your doorstep by the numerous other young men who have taken it to be their sacred duty to build every inch of this so-called resort in the heart of the jungle. "I built the room where you are staying. And the furniture too," Sunny tells me. There's a twinkle in his eyes.
The jungle lies on the edge of a fencing, doubly guarded by a trench. It doesn't stop the elephants though, from paying a visit to the kitchen especially. It's the December of 2007. Sunny is sitting with me in front of the fire. We are exchanging notes on our respective families. Sunny understands both Hindi and English. His spoken Hindi though, is pretty rusty. The fence and the trench are right behind us. And the forest is coming alive slowly as the hours of the night progresses.
The jungle lies on the edge of a fencing, doubly guarded by a trench. It doesn't stop the elephants though, from paying a visit to the kitchen especially. It's the December of 2007. Sunny is sitting with me in front of the fire. We are exchanging notes on our respective families. Sunny understands both Hindi and English. His spoken Hindi though, is pretty rusty. The fence and the trench are right behind us. And the forest is coming alive slowly as the hours of the night progresses.
A 23-year old, who works as a construction hand during the non-tourist season and as a jeep driver for the Manas Maozedongri Ecotourism Society between November and April, lives in the neighbouring village. He has a mom to look after and live with. He also lives with what to my urban mind is definitely a disturbing memory -- of seeing a dad killed by the wardiwallahs in front of one's own eyes. Sunny was 'just about eight... he can't quite remember.' But the way he says it, he sounds like the incident has been gone through, the emotions negotiated long back. He is stoic with his story.
-- Do you have to tell this story often?
-- No. You tell your father dying. You not there. I tell you how my father died.
Man to man talk.
-- Don't you have any anger left inside you? They killed your father...
-- No. What's the point? Can I fight the cops? No body can. They tried. They were killed.
--Who tried?
-- Villagers. Who stay back.
-- So many more were killed?
-- Yes. Cops show they killing terrorists. Terrorists retreat deep. Inside jungles. Drive forest guards out. Cops afraid to enter forest. They raid villages around jungle. Torture people. Ask information. We no know where leaders stay. My dad no know. He can't tell cops. They fire—bang, bang... dad finished. Dad become terrorist.
Father just sitting to dinner. They barge in. Father die before he eat food.
Sunny poured out in an unwavering voice.
Sunny spat on the ground.
Sunny was absolutely at peace with death. Because he, like all the others who live in the villages bordering the fringe area of the Manas Reserve see it at close quarters.
That's what I will dwell upon in my next post.
No comments:
Post a Comment