In the course of my work, I am often required to travel to exotic rural locales within Rajasthan. Far from feeling troubled, I find such trips exquisitely invigorating, and an excuse for escaping the unnerving stubbornness with which life has to be pursued within the concrete jungles of the metropolitan cities. The trips are actually extended medical excursions and mostly involve conducting surgical and free check up camps. This brings us across a vast intersection of the rank rural populace, and I am quite often stunned at the extent to which the offshoots of modern technology have affected their (what I thought until now) uncomplicated lives. Ramlal, whom I knew ever since he owned 15 bighas of farmland on the Jaipur – Delhi highway, became a multi millionaire overnight when he sold off his property to a developer a couple of years ago. Festooned in his white dhoti-kurta-pagdi garb, he met me last fortnight on a camp visit to his village, when he brought his large, extended and predominantly feminine family to the camp in his black AC Bolero for a free medical check up. It was nothing short of a glorious spectacle. Eleven women, lavishly bedecked in colourful lehenga cholis and heavy gold ornaments, tumbled out from all sides of the Bolero one after the other. The entourage, as I was told, consisted of Ramlal’s wife, his mother, mother in law, assorted maamis, bhabhis, mausis, nieces and other far and ‘wide’ relatives whom Ramlal had to oblige by getting them examined by a ‘shahar ki daaktarni’. Ramlal meanwhile has become a political cool dude of sorts since, having won and lost a few random elections, travelled to Delhi with the Power Minister in the ‘sarkari’ chopper on a couple of occasions and hosted a regional party rally which was rather well attended by those who habitually throw their weight around. As we chatted over a cup of tea (sugar, milk and tea broth actually), the ladies privately discussed their unending woes with the attending gynec in hushed tones. I don’t know why, but most rural women belonging to opulent, Ramlal type households are extraordinarily preoccupied with their weight, and any minuscule reduction (actual or imaginary) is instantly perceived as an unmistakable sign of impending catastrophe. So, in order to assuage their grave doubts, and to add to the success of the ‘camp’, the gynec had to prescribe gallons of iron and vitamin syrups to them. During the chit chat, Ramlal told me that his two able sons were helping him in his business and he planned to gift each one a brand new ‘Nanu’. I was a little perplexed; as far as I knew, Nanus can’t be chosen. Just as you can’t choose your parents, you can’t choose your Naanus and Naanis. Ramlal cleared my confusion. ‘Arre….Ratanlal ji ka Nanu!’ He told me he had even chosen the colours. A yellow Nanu for the elder one and a red Nanu for the younger one. The two Nanus would cost him just 2.5 lacs. ‘Hum do…hamare do!’ I pondered in silence. India was soon going to become a Land of Two Nanus……
