Going back to your roots is a journey which has to be experienced. It fills one with anticipation, hope, and a strange feeling of going back to your origins.
Recently, on my way to the tiny hamlet of Kurud, in the backward Naxal infested district of Gadchiroli, in Maharashtra, I was filled with these feelings. This was not my first visit, I have been to Kurud a number of times. Kurud is about 130 kms away from Nagpur which is also called “Orange City”, because of its oranges.
My father was born in this village in 1924. The village has since grown, the house which was majestic at one time, with a gate like a palace and called a “wada,” is today nothing but ruins. All those prosperous Uke’s have left home, gone away, settled in big cities, built palatial houses, and have forgotten that place and that house which was so lovingly made by Gomaji Uke. The gates and the house which taught them to stand with their head held high, has been left to dilapidate. The house seems to have gone with those who once lived, loved, and laughed in that house.
I was left with a feeling of sorrow. Is this what happens eventually? Do we simply move on? Does that house built by my ancestors with love, diligence, hard work, need to turn into a ruin? Can we not let it stand with its head held high, talking about those who have their roots there? The vibrations of those people, the desire, the hope, the dreams, and the vision of going forward, needs to be felt by those who are the inheritors today. There needs to be a place where future generations can go and look with awe at that simple village and that beautiful house which housed people with a vision. Our future generations need to have a place which will let them feel the sense of belonging that I have for that place. They need to appreciate the history behind their family, and visualize how visions and dreams can come true. It would be nice for them to know those people who were responsible for making us what we are today. Our genes, our traits, our nature and our behavior are patterned on someone or the other who once lived in that “wada”.
When people migrate from their homes, they become refugees, they are displaced. They have to find roots in strange places and yet always want to go back and see where they came from. It is after all only a plot of land, in some part of the world, yet the desire to go back and see that place is always there. Is it the homing instinct? I have been trying to understand this strange feeling and explain to myself this desire. Why?? What do I get when I stand on the grounds of that ruined dilapidated house? What do I feel when I stand on those paddy fields, where stood my grandmother Renuka, replanting paddy with many others, singing her songs? Where stood my grandfather watching over his ever growing fields?
I am amazed at my feelings. I, who have travelled a lot all over the world, and seen a lot of places from the book, “1000 places to see before you die”. I travel so much that my daughter’s friends ask if I work in the airlines!! Why does this small village fascinate me so much? Why do I keep going back there?
Kurud is such a picturesque village along the beautiful Wainganga River. There is a railway bridge over the river. The nearest railway station is 3 miles or 5 kms away. The railway station is called Wadsa.This small town has another name- Desaiganj, after a Collector who was once posted there. Today Wadsa has grown. When I went to Kurud, as a child, we had to travel by the narrow gauge train from Nagpur. From Wadsa we went by bullock cart to Kurud. Bullock carts were pretty. Some were covered, and some were open. We were always transported by the covered ones. The bullocks were tall, beautiful and good looking animals, with beautiful horns, the tips of which were usually adorned with brass ornaments. The covers of the cart too were beautifully crafted. We went patiently, slowly and steadily, over dirt tracks and deeply ridged roads. No comfort of smooth roads and comfortable cushions and no shock absorbers.
On arrival at the “wada”, we were met by my grandfather, who was always seen with a safa(head dress), and my grandmother with a huge nath(nose ring). She used to sit right in the center of the hallway, on an easy chair. There was a small kitchen, dark, with a small door, so one always entered with the head bowed. There were stairs going up, where the grain was stored. Ours was a family of kashtakars-or farmers. Land was what my grandfather bought in plenty. He was wise and invested wisely.
My father was the third son. He showed a penchant for studying, so my grandfather educated him. Dad asked his father to educate him up to the primary level and said that he would himself take care of his higher education. Middle school, High School, the Matriculation examination, graduation, and engineering degree from England were all on merit scholarship. There was no stopping this little boy who could not pronounce some words clearly as a child - he used to lisp then.
People move away-my dad went away for work. He never lived in Maharashtra, as his work took him far and wide all over India. We three children never lived in Kurud, except as guests - yet what draws us there over and over again?
I wonder, yes I wonder!!
Kurud had a big lake, where everyday one of my cousins would go to wash the clothes of the family. On my visit to Kurud I would accompany her. Almost all the girls of the neighborhood would be there, washing, chatting and giggling. They would dry the clothes, fold them and then go back home. It was their own time out, a socializing time. Boys would go out with the cows to graze them. There were huge cauldrons with special food or “chara” which was fed to the bullocks every morning. The bullocks were tied in their sheds, near the baithak. They would keep chewing their cud all the time. They had bells in their necks and were much loved animals. In the morning water was filled from wells for drinking. We had a well right in front of our house. Water was heated and given to us for bathing. Geysers? What was that?
Families were joint, daughters – in - law were given different duties. Each person had assigned tasks, which it was their duty to complete. The house worked like a cohesive unit. Elders were respected, family was united, and children grew up together. There was a firm hand ruling the roost. There was a book called the “Pandav Pratap”, wherein a record was kept of all the births and deaths of family members.
Simple folk, great folk, history of me- is that what draws me there?
I still wonder!!!
Recently, on my way to the tiny hamlet of Kurud, in the backward Naxal infested district of Gadchiroli, in Maharashtra, I was filled with these feelings. This was not my first visit, I have been to Kurud a number of times. Kurud is about 130 kms away from Nagpur which is also called “Orange City”, because of its oranges.
My father was born in this village in 1924. The village has since grown, the house which was majestic at one time, with a gate like a palace and called a “wada,” is today nothing but ruins. All those prosperous Uke’s have left home, gone away, settled in big cities, built palatial houses, and have forgotten that place and that house which was so lovingly made by Gomaji Uke. The gates and the house which taught them to stand with their head held high, has been left to dilapidate. The house seems to have gone with those who once lived, loved, and laughed in that house.
I was left with a feeling of sorrow. Is this what happens eventually? Do we simply move on? Does that house built by my ancestors with love, diligence, hard work, need to turn into a ruin? Can we not let it stand with its head held high, talking about those who have their roots there? The vibrations of those people, the desire, the hope, the dreams, and the vision of going forward, needs to be felt by those who are the inheritors today. There needs to be a place where future generations can go and look with awe at that simple village and that beautiful house which housed people with a vision. Our future generations need to have a place which will let them feel the sense of belonging that I have for that place. They need to appreciate the history behind their family, and visualize how visions and dreams can come true. It would be nice for them to know those people who were responsible for making us what we are today. Our genes, our traits, our nature and our behavior are patterned on someone or the other who once lived in that “wada”.
When people migrate from their homes, they become refugees, they are displaced. They have to find roots in strange places and yet always want to go back and see where they came from. It is after all only a plot of land, in some part of the world, yet the desire to go back and see that place is always there. Is it the homing instinct? I have been trying to understand this strange feeling and explain to myself this desire. Why?? What do I get when I stand on the grounds of that ruined dilapidated house? What do I feel when I stand on those paddy fields, where stood my grandmother Renuka, replanting paddy with many others, singing her songs? Where stood my grandfather watching over his ever growing fields?
I am amazed at my feelings. I, who have travelled a lot all over the world, and seen a lot of places from the book, “1000 places to see before you die”. I travel so much that my daughter’s friends ask if I work in the airlines!! Why does this small village fascinate me so much? Why do I keep going back there?
Kurud is such a picturesque village along the beautiful Wainganga River. There is a railway bridge over the river. The nearest railway station is 3 miles or 5 kms away. The railway station is called Wadsa.This small town has another name- Desaiganj, after a Collector who was once posted there. Today Wadsa has grown. When I went to Kurud, as a child, we had to travel by the narrow gauge train from Nagpur. From Wadsa we went by bullock cart to Kurud. Bullock carts were pretty. Some were covered, and some were open. We were always transported by the covered ones. The bullocks were tall, beautiful and good looking animals, with beautiful horns, the tips of which were usually adorned with brass ornaments. The covers of the cart too were beautifully crafted. We went patiently, slowly and steadily, over dirt tracks and deeply ridged roads. No comfort of smooth roads and comfortable cushions and no shock absorbers.
On arrival at the “wada”, we were met by my grandfather, who was always seen with a safa(head dress), and my grandmother with a huge nath(nose ring). She used to sit right in the center of the hallway, on an easy chair. There was a small kitchen, dark, with a small door, so one always entered with the head bowed. There were stairs going up, where the grain was stored. Ours was a family of kashtakars-or farmers. Land was what my grandfather bought in plenty. He was wise and invested wisely.
My father was the third son. He showed a penchant for studying, so my grandfather educated him. Dad asked his father to educate him up to the primary level and said that he would himself take care of his higher education. Middle school, High School, the Matriculation examination, graduation, and engineering degree from England were all on merit scholarship. There was no stopping this little boy who could not pronounce some words clearly as a child - he used to lisp then.
People move away-my dad went away for work. He never lived in Maharashtra, as his work took him far and wide all over India. We three children never lived in Kurud, except as guests - yet what draws us there over and over again?
I wonder, yes I wonder!!
Kurud had a big lake, where everyday one of my cousins would go to wash the clothes of the family. On my visit to Kurud I would accompany her. Almost all the girls of the neighborhood would be there, washing, chatting and giggling. They would dry the clothes, fold them and then go back home. It was their own time out, a socializing time. Boys would go out with the cows to graze them. There were huge cauldrons with special food or “chara” which was fed to the bullocks every morning. The bullocks were tied in their sheds, near the baithak. They would keep chewing their cud all the time. They had bells in their necks and were much loved animals. In the morning water was filled from wells for drinking. We had a well right in front of our house. Water was heated and given to us for bathing. Geysers? What was that?
Families were joint, daughters – in - law were given different duties. Each person had assigned tasks, which it was their duty to complete. The house worked like a cohesive unit. Elders were respected, family was united, and children grew up together. There was a firm hand ruling the roost. There was a book called the “Pandav Pratap”, wherein a record was kept of all the births and deaths of family members.
Simple folk, great folk, history of me- is that what draws me there?
I still wonder!!!
No comments:
Post a Comment