Memoirs !

Memories are movable feast . Ernest Hemingway had written a book titled this name depicting his memories .I am not Ernest Hemingway ,not at all & my memories will not have exotic names but it will be movable feast ,providing galaxy of buffet  enjoying the reminiscences of the persons involved, anecdotes occurred ,some hilarious, some inviting goosebumps after goose bumps,some inquisitive & some quaint  but all reflective .

Bullock Cart in flood water

 

 

 

 

I had been with my mother,father at his place of posting & I have got hazy memory of Mahua remote hinterland of Vaishali clear memory of Jhanjharpur small place in river Kosi catchment area ,Siwan a mofussil town ,Muzaffarpur ,Bhagalpur & Barh ,big towns on the map of Bihar gradually coming of age with passing time of my father's posting..From Barh I had gone to Surat for my professional degree in engineering . Nothing extraordinary ,nothing unusual. But a  quaint episode is deeply etched in my memory during my boarding at Siwan .

My father had inherent love for his village home & during a particular Durgapuja he was not made a referee to maintain peace at a controvertial place between two warring community Hindu & Muslim . I was very happy as my father had been a freeman during D.P. not burdened to discharge official obligations  & he had few days at his disposal to pass as he liked . He decided, we should enjoy Dussehra at our village home .

Just before Dussehra , it was heavy rain & for days burp of dark clouds was audible & occasional darting of zigzag  light preceded the cloud thunders . Heavy downpour accompanied with drizzle soaked the vast swath of landscape with rustling sound of leaves & branches caused by stormy wind made everything gloomy  It was unseasonal rain but it was there heavily pouring causing flash flood at many places . I was thinking how in this cheerless atmosphere we will make our journey by train to Bachhwara,our railhead albeit it was a railway junction . But on the desired date of our journey clouds in the sky thinned, rays of sun were peeping out & at many places in the sky they were making cotton-candy with the assortment of  clouds .The atmospheric elation had come .

In the evening ,we reached Bachhwara Me along with my mother restlessly waited in station waiting room hoping against hope, some bullock cart will be arranged which will ferry us to our village Rudouli as whole visible landscape was submerged  by flash flood. No bullock cart man was ready to take risk & ferry us in this flooded terrain . Ultimately my father ,thru his influence brought one Muslim bullock cart driver, made him ready for ferrying us with some persuasion ,with some cajolement . I was inanely watching the whole proceedings .

Our village home was only two miles from railway station ,but it had been one of the treacherous journey for me in life & after passing of six decades, remembering it, a wry smile still play on my lips  The bullock cart man made us to sit in his cart & only sheet of muddy water visible in the whole landscape ,occasionally touching the seat bottom of the cart made of bamboos also .In the evening at 6'0' clock he started & in pitch darkness how he was navigating & negotiating the alignment of road is still enigma for me but perhaps ,umpteen times he had carted on the path gave him the confidence to pilot his bullocks. Only his occasional grunt to bullocks pierced the still silence. Many times I murmured to my mother  in hushed tone ,if bullocks aberrate from the path & fall in road side ditch ,what will happen to us.I was getting goose bumps after goose bumps during whole rendezvous on the bullock cart. Mother gave a succinct reply ! हम सब डूब जायंगे ! I didn't dare to ask her further !

In the night at 12'0'clock we reached on the bank of river passing through my village 'Balan' One influential man Chetto Singh of our village had massive building 
 & on his long verandah we sheltered ourselves from this tortuous journey . I was drained & tired & I still remember the taste of his offered sweetmeat in the dead of night . My father thought to be famous son of his village always called lovingly 'Deputy Shaheb 'The boatman along with boat was called in loud voice & after negotiating swollen Balan ,we reached  our  village home .

           I will never forget this dreadful tortuous journey on a bullock cart in my life.

Continued .............