The roots that are withering away

IT is said that families are like trees whose branches grow in different directions but their roots remain the same. My father, who worked as a mechanic for the Haryana Roadways Transport Corporation for over 30 years, retired in 1995. Subsequently, he resumed cultivation on his small plot of land in a village in Pratapgarh district of Uttar Pradesh, where he continued farming till his death in 2007. As per his wish, he was buried underneath a bamboo tree in our fields. During his lifetime, I visited the village every year to seek his blessings. Now, I visit his grave every two or three years to pay homage.

My ancestral village in Awadh evokes memories of my hardworking forebears, who tilled the soil, grazed cattle on common pastures and lived in a small hamlet surrounded by groves of mahua, mango and neem trees. On a recent visit, I saw the nearly 150-year-old neem tree, now having only a few green branches left, and the well from the same era. The well now stands abandoned, ‘guarded’ by dry acacia twigs with prickly thorns that prevent animals and children from falling in.

I recall my father telling me, “Our ancestors moved here from a nearby village, where buffaloes had to wade through a large pond on their way to the pastures. Upon arriving, they planted a neem sapling and started digging this well.”

Both the tree and the well bear silent witness to the journey of my peasant family. It saddened me to see them neglected by birds, cattle and even people. When I was five, the tree had thick foliage, which extended into the inner courtyard of our ancestral mud house. Bundles of dry jute sticks were stacked on its gnarled branches, used as fuel for cooking. When relatives visited, they were invited to rest on a stringed cot beneath its cool shade, and fresh water from the well was offered to quench their thirst after enjoying homemade jaggery treats.

Panchayat meetings — which resolved disputes between brothers, estranged spouses or feuding neighbours — were often held under the tree’s soothing shade during hot afternoons. Villagers would bathe at an elevated cement platform near the well, where they exchanged stories — both humorous and tragic. Newly married couples took three rounds around the well and touch the feet of family elders for blessings. Dogs sought shelter under the tree, and cows and calves happily mooed nearby.

The village has changed. The signs of a semi-urban life are evident: electricity, hand pumps and televisions are now in every household. More of our daughters are attending schools and colleges. Streets and link roads have been paved and widened. Yet, the old sense of bhaichara (kinship) seems to be under threat, replaced by petty jealousy and bitter conflicts over shrinking land and an overwhelming love of lucre.

Now in my mid-sixties, I am struggling to hold on to my roots. But change is inevitable, and I must learn to embrace it with grace. As Leo Tolstoy said, “True life is lived when tiny changes occur.”

Musings