After crossing the vividly pink Coronation Bridge, the road finally straightened out to a smooth highway- reminding us of the luxuries of a promised metaphorical Switzerland. The overcrowded bus-people rushing home for tika, luggage, live chicken included- always had room for more passengers at various stops- Baghpool, Oodlabari, Damdim, Sylee. Names that defied explanation for the uninitiated. We were tourists, travelling for the first time to Gorubathan to visit relatives for Dasain. It is a small hamlet by the Chel khola. A hot, dusty town with an alternative identity of Sombarey- because every Sombar (Monday) it is market day. When we reached there on a lazy Tuesday afternoon, the main attraction was a deserted “Housie” stall with a speaker on the mike exhorting the public for a game of tambola. We had a wonderful lunch of local cuisine- made even more delectable by homemade ghee and three types of achar- served at a restaurant named Alfresco! Mama and maiju implored us to stay with them but there were more people waiting for us. Due to deplorable road conditions here, we had to take a shortcut through the forest- this shortcut took us an hour to reach our destination! But as we reached the beautiful two storied house surrounded by tall trees, we felt good at heart and were warmly welcomed by our eagerly waiting relatives. The next day was spent celebrating Dasain and meeting and greeting all friendly neighbours. The most beautiful paddy fields we found at the top of the hill – Gorubathan Tar. Golden fields of paddy kissed by the October sun – ever so pleasant to sit beneath a shady tree and feel the cool breeze on your hair. Everyone we met had a friendly greeting on their lips, a kind word of welcome, an invitation to sit a while and sip some hot tea. This was a gentle reminder to us about the simple folk of the village, who are instinctively helpful and friendly. A piece of Wordsworth’s pastoral paradise. The following day brought an old family member to the house. He came quietly, climbing up the narrow footpath with his walking stick. I couldn’t hear his voice; it was soft as the breeze. He sat down on a chair and asked for water. He was very old and yet I couldn’t guess his age from the wrinkles on his face. As we continued talking and discussing, I noticed that he was very quiet but paid keen attention to the conversation. He name was P. S. Rai. When asked his full name – it was Paltan Singh Rai. Why Paltan? He replied that his family had a lot of sons and when he was born someone remarked that his family had become an entire “platoon” of sons so therefore Paltan it was and Paltan it remained. He went on to inform us that over the years he has had to make a lot of affidavits concerning his name. In the year 1939, he had joined the army and at the time of joining the recruiting officer at Ghoom asked him his name – he replied “Paltan Das Rai”. The officer remarked that the suffix Das really didn’t suit him ( even though our bajey explained that it was a suffix to honour their religious head – a puritan sect of Kabir followers) and then christened him Paltan Singh Rai – a more warrior like name, ready to go a face the enemy. Curiosity aroused, the cat inside me wanted to know more. Paltan bajey then astounded me by saying that he served in the army from 1939 to 1947 under the British. He remembers seeing Gandhiji, Nehru and other leaders. Due to his age, he says, he can’t remember everything but whatever he does he shares it with us. He remembers being posted in Jhansi and Amritsar- two places that are etched in his memory. He served in the army office as a clerk because he knew how to read and write. A broad smile crosses his face as he remembers drawing a handsome salary of Rs. 65 a month while a soldier got only Rs. 18 and a langari (cook) drew Rs. 17. The food they got was roti, made by the North Indians and sometimes blackened and bitter to taste. This ultimately drove the Gorkhas to start their own kitchen. The British ran canteens where soldiers were served coffee by fair European girls who also lit the cigarette on your lips. This bajey remarked that this was a pure “gora policy”. He remembers meeting his cousins in Jhansi and developing a black and white photo in a studio – he showed a copy of the photograph. It shows an elegant lady, dressing in a beautiful saree with a firm, confident look on her face. She was a nurse and had served in exotic places like Singapore. A long lost name in the family history – suddenly brought to life by this photograph. Where was he when India became independent in 1947? He wrinkles his nose and says he can still remember the stench of the blood, so much blood on the streets of Amristar. The blood of the innocents, the death trains that arrived with more corpses and blood. He had census duty but soon had to help in the relief operations all over the city. He remembers the senseless shooting at the passing trains, the rage with which people hacked each other. So much blood and he wrinkles nose again. “Dikkai lagyo” – “I got fed up”. After Independence, all Gorkha recruits were given a choice of continuing their service or going home. Our homesick bajey and his friends came home. With a slight tinge of regret, he mentions his comrades who stayed on, went to Malaya and made a good fortune. When he came back, his only options were “hulo and kodalo” – the plough and the digger. A farmer’s life and a fulfilling life. Did you ever go back again? Never. Our bajey has outlived his siblings, some of his younger generation and keeps saying “ mero brain kharab bhayo” – “my brain has become defective”. Our visit came to an end and with promises to meet again we finally parted. On the journey back, I could not shake off the face of Paltan bajey and his gentle voice. I hope to return soon and continue my conversations with him. - Sajid Ahmed October 2012
(Unfortunately, I couldn’t meet Paltan Bajey again – he passed way on 12 Feb 2016. It was his birthday – his date of birth was 12 Feb 1922).
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