Flushing away old memories

People Like Us

Time was when, the last time I'd been to Dhupalia, a speck on the map of western Rajasthan consisting of no more than a hundred houses, one of which belonged to my grandfather, there was neither electricity, nor piped water, nor any road within kissing distance of the village. Two decades after I'd last been there, I was making a whistle-stop tour back on the insistence of my parents.

"I hope you won't behave like city kids," I warned my children. "I'm sure my grandparents' house has everything we could want," said my son. "Right," I said consolingly, "but they don't live there, and sometimes don't visit for many months, so the house could pretty much be in ruins."

"As long as there's an attached bath," said my daughter, "I don't think I'd mind very much else." "Attached baths," I exclaimed, "this is a village in the desert where you'll have to go to the fields for your ablutions, and bathe from a bucket behind some walls that are open to the skies."

"Oh my gosh," said my daughter, "that sounds pre-historic." "I would be grateful," I said sternly, "if you did not embarrass your grandparents by demanding unreasonable comforts. Do you know," I continued, "when I used to visit my grandparents, we would walk over five kilometres to reach the village." "Does that mean we'll need walking shoes?" asked my daughter.

"Yes," I said, "and long dresses, so that the scrub thorns don't scratch your legs. Also, you'll need to get used to the smell of smoke since food's cooked on wood and dung fires. But fortunately, there is a kuchcha road, so you won't have to walk to the village."

It was with some trepidation that we drove off from Bikaner, my parents making sure they had all the keys to the locks of the house. Nearing the village, I began to search for the kuchcha track, so the newly laid road, surprisingly wide and well maintained, came as a surprise. By now, my parents were grinning, and I was soon to realise why.

Not only was our house far from being in ruinous state, it had recently been repaired, and a new wing added. A pipe had been pulled from the village well, and attached to a motor that filled the tank and supplied running water for the shower and flush. There was a bath attached to the new section of the house, and cooking in the kitchen was on the gas.

Though our house did not have a telephone, there were enough homes in the village that did, and even though electricity supply was limited to twelve hours a day (at nights one week, by day the next), its very presence was a change from the lanterns of my childhood. "So this is what you complained about as a child," giggled my daughter.

For all its modern facilities, the village nights were long and silent, the sky aglow with stars. Moaning peacocks announced dawn, bells ringing around their necks the cattle returned from the day's grazing, and temple bells chimed mellifluously without the aid of public address systems.

And since there was no television, we actually sat around and talked to each other, drinks in our hands, wondering why we couldn't live like this forever.

At the end of the trip, my parents said, "Do you think you'll visit the village house soon?" "Sooner than you imagine, " I said, "just so I can work undisturbed for a month or two, and finish a manuscript for which I haven't managed the time over the last few years."

And to think I could hardly have guessed till a few days ago that all remote Dhupalia needs to be connected with the world is a laptop in reasonable working condition.