The Other Indian...2

This time I shall harp on another aspect of the other Indian that has fascinated me since my childhood. Not about my estranged friend that I told you earlier about. But a feature of the santhal community on the whole.

The sight of a hunted swine hung upside down on a bamboo stick stretching on the shoulders of two dark men has always grabbed my attention. The mark of the pierced arrow still there on the body of the animal. At times, the arrow too keeps slinging from its original place, where the beast was hit by these primitive hunters.

The spectacle carries me straight to the hills, into the hunting expedition of my fellow friends. I too begin to imagine myself as one of the hunters bravely chasing the animals, bow and arrow in hand. My hunting dogs backing me up to find the animals.

These are the real hunters I feel, unlike the nawabs or Bollywood actors who often get penalized for their love for the game. Hunting, unlike these natives is not their need. It is only for amusement that they hunt. Safely mounted on their jeep and armed with guns.

There are however only few such spectacles now. Most of the natives have given up the sport. They work as labourers now and get Rs 60 or 70 for a day’s work. Owing to large scale unscrupulous felling the region once known for its thick and extensive forests is now bereft of much of its jungle wealth. The number of boars in the depreciated jungle has also come down considerably.

The other Indian?

My college closed up for the summer and I get to my ancestral home. Borio is a small village in the Sahibganj district (earlier in Santhal Pargana district) of Jharkhand.

I stand at the door and watch the buffaloes being taken for grazing in the fields. When I was small I ran and tried climbing on one of them. Unsuccessful almost each time, I often fell on the ground and hurt myself. The country animal was too huge for my small size.

Now, I am confident I can climb it and would not fall. But I cannot try the sport. What will people think? The herd comes to an end with the grazier sitting comfortably on the last black beast and playing on his flute. I envied him as a child.

Does he represent “the other India” that the media far away in the capital often complacently refers to? Or that Rahul Gandhi is trying to discover in his travels to the villages - the India that is dispossessed and forgotten? The question perturbs me. And I resolve to find an answer.

I follow this cattle-grazer. I know he speaks a different language (Santhali) and is a “Santhal” – a tribe that the villagers still look down upon. But also one which had played an active role in India’s freedom struggle. He is little aware of his clan’s achievements and has now yielded to the criticism of his “dikku” adversary. (“Dikku” is the Santhali term for the non-Santhals)

The buffaloes graze in the open fields. Some descend into the dirty swamp of rainwater and lie there, motionless. Their black body dyed into a brown complexion. As the sun ascends the sky, the grazier keeps playing his flute as if entertaining his herd of animals.

Its noon. My newfound companion sits under a banyan tree to have his lunch. Rice and onion. That’s the menu on his leaf plate. It raises my appetite too. I return to my house and find my grandmother waiting for me on the dining table.

The menu here is a more extensive one. Rice, dal(pulses), brinjal bhaja, salad and my favourite variety of fish, katla.

As I take my lunch, I cannot but give a thought to my estranged friend.