Exploring Life in a Village. Review on Ranchi

Barajuri, a district in Ghatsila, near Ranchi is a very peaceful and beautiful place. The sun rises in the morning to reveal columns of men and women weaving through and around fields as they head for work. Some work in the fields clearing land, some in factories where they skillfully weave bags, some expertly mould pots, while others serve as maids to the wealthy. The women wrap themselves in colorful saris and emphasize their eyes with kohl. They are a delightful sight to behold as they stride gracefully, laughing and gossiping with their friends. The men tread purposefully. They have a job to do and money to earn. They are generally freshly shaven, and while the warm sun is out, bare chested. They wear a length cloth expertly folded around the their waist; the young men wear colored checks, while the older men opt for white/off white or dirty white fabric. The older men and woman walk separately at a dignified pace, while youngsters amble and flirt expertly.

The Barajury district is littered with several small villages. Each of these villages possess a general store, a tea shop and a man selling chickens. Black and ochre houses made from clay line the crooked little dirt roads. These houses are always meticulously maintained and often accommodate up to 20 people. Some of these villages are yet to experience the convenience of electricity and most of the techniques they use for cooking and cleaning have been habitual for centauries. The people are generally friendly though reserved, and as we walked through several of these villages, we would feel the eyes of the people boring into our backs. We were strangers and didn’t belong to their world as equivocally as they did not belong to ours. Our guide would often tell the villager we were visiting from a place very far away…another country. They would nod knowledgably and assume that meant we were from Bangalore. The idea of foreign countries was often a little too abstract for their simple lifestyle.

While walking through the fields I notice that several of the trees had a platform on it. Intrigued, I consulted our guide and demanded to know who played in these tree houses. He looked bemused and explained to me as though I was a young, somewhat dumb-witted child, that those platforms were not tree house, but were lookouts for destructive elephants. It was my turn to be completely dumfounded. Whatever purpose I felt the tree house served, it certainly wasn’t that!

One evening we are invited to a function a local village is throwing to celebrate the coming of the full moon. The village is perched at the edge of a river which catches and reflects the moonlight on its many ripples. This provides a stunning backdrop to the evenings entertainment, which starts of with several young girls dancing in a row. They finish the dance by presenting us with flowers and lead us to cushioned chairs at the front of their out door ‘stage’. Then some older folk sing songs of love and tell stories of the gods. The final act of the evening is a dance drama performed by the teenagers of the community. My sister, who has been studying mohiniattam for several years and recently completed her arangettam, tells me the story being performed. It is about the naughty young Krishna who has been chastised by his mother for drinking the creamy milk. As punishment, she ties his hands behind his back and in his rebellion, he eats the dirt on the floor of his hut. His mother sees him do this and quickly opens his mouth to wash away the dirt, but as she does so, she sees the entire universe in Krishna’s mouth and realizes her son is destined for great things.

The river, which winds its way through Barajuri is beautiful, though her temperament changes with the seasons. After the monsoonal rains, she floods her banks and water thunders down stream with a dull roar, as if warning man and beast of it power and its ability to drag into her depths any fool who challenges her supreme authority. However, it appears as though she becomes bashful when the sun comes to his full glory in the summer months as the river slowly retreats, revealing numerous stone structures that have been molded by water and wind for countless centuries. The roar of the river quietens to a friendly bubbling noise as water trips demurely over rocks and pebbles. I explore the rocks till I find a crevice that hugs my back comfortably and as I lean against this ancient stonework, I observe the river life.

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