Train. Tractor. Crane

Aravalli hills bordering the village, miles and miles of recently harvested bajra fields or freshly sown sesame fields, short trees, thorny bushes and a single railway track- these are the images that greet me from my boundary wall. The expanse is very typical of village-centred Hindi movies that one might be accustomed to watching. What makes it special for me is that it is now my home. One morning, just as the rising red sun signaled the beginning of a new day, I managed to capture this scene from my backyard. I thought to myself that it was an interesting confluence of nature, man and machine. The thought stayed with me for over a week and everyday it matured. The body of which you will read in the following passages.

TRAIN. It is a commonly publicised fact that two-thirds of India's population is a floating population, that which is constantly on the move. The enormity of the fact sinks in when you just think how many passengers are in a train and how many trains are running across the country at the moment. Incredible, isn't it?! Just as the lines that crisscross our palms and determine our destinies, if one is to believe the palmists, the railway lines, too, speak a lot about our nation, then.

For some of my field visits in the neighbouring districts of Mohindergarh and Jhajjhar I have had to travel by the local train. My brief (20 minutes to 2 hour) journeys in these trains have provided me with insights about Haryana's people that I could not see so explicit during my other interactions with the locals. Rural Haryana has a heart, a large and magnanimous one at that. "Aaja! Baith idhar." On a berth that can comfortably seat three adults, six manage to find place. On a bike that can safely carry two adults, three adults and a goat find space. In a tempo where twelve adults can sit, thirty four manage to find space! Clinging by sheer power of their biceps (only well developed by buffalo's milk), these men (and sometimes women, too!) travel with such élan, I am continually awe-struck when I take to the roads. I am amazed not by the strength of a populace on a vehicle, but by its immediate response to make space for one more of its kind!

Back inside the train, again. From media to Mahabharat, from criket to Kejriwal- in my short, congested encounters I have managed to hold meaningful conversations with random strangers. Twenty minutes may not mean much while valuing the depth of a conversation, but twenty minutes could be an eternity for that city dweller who has never had the time to smile at a co-passenger. Greetings are mandatory here, not by rule, by custom, by tradition. It is a shame, an insult at other times, if one cannot reciprocate a smile or a namaste to the very people who made space for you. In that context, my twenty minute journeys here have had more meaning  than my 40 hours ordeals between Delhi and Chennai during my college days.

I learnt to see that the people around me are messiahs of a culture. I am learning to look beyond what may seem obvious or natural. That which runs on a copper track, loha-pata-gamini, is no mean carrier of passengers and goods, it is a peep into the living trends of a place. It is a TRAIN.

TRACTOR. I live away from my village- Khori, on a road that connects Khori and its single-track railway station. All around me, in every direction, I can see only fields. The nearest building is 20 minutes away by foot.  I wonder if the aerial view would look like a chequered math note book of a child. Except that it would seem interesting, all brown and green. The only break in this image would be the farmers and their tractors. Tractors are the very proof of mechanisation of traditional activities. Like stethoscope to doctor, tractor to farmer. They are solely the property of their respective occupation. Medicine and farming.

Farming. An occupation that is decreasingly becoming viable. An occupation that is increasingly becoming polluted, like everything else. Some statistics that have plagued my being for a while are to do with farmer deaths.  Right from unfair pricing to harmful consequences of Genetically Modified farming, this class of people are bearing the brunt of a lot of problems. In an overwhelming number of interactions with farmers, I have come to understand that most of their children/grandchildren no longer want to continue farming. It is understandable. If the government supplies electricity only between 9pm and midnight, it is dreadful to irrigate one's field on a winter night. Not every young chap in the village is ready to bear such drudgery.

The sight of a tractor, then brings me back to a barrage of unanswered questions on farmer welfare and what the country needs to do keep them happy. The tractor also reminds me of my past indifferent urban life  when not once I had bothered to enquire where my food came from or how much was it priced at. Finally, the tractor makes me question the impact of technology's advance on nature and the relevance of organic farming in today's scenario.

In Bhiwani's cotton fields, I saw for the first time a farmer ploughing his land with the help of a camel. Not a bull. Not a TRACTOR.

CRANE. The freshly ploughed earth, meticulous lines running across the soil and small bunds that demarcate individual property. Such geometric perfection means nothing to these birds, that converge at the plough of the tractor to quickly peck on the numerous worms that the tool unearths. They are in their true and natural element.

The "badlands" of Haryana, as the description goes these days, has made me a victim of strict timings. I have a sunset curfew and any after-the-dark outing has to be in the company of a known and trusted local, male preferably. It chains me and every evening between sunset and bedtime I am left to ponder on all of life's important questions, including if and when Sachin will retire. When I step out of my room, devoid of human company for miles on the road, I am witness to nature in all its glory. My chains come undone so gracefully, just at that moment.

The crane, the barbet, the sparrow, the dove, the parrot, the peacock, the wheatear, the drongo- they all dot my landscape and make my days and more importantly, the nights, infinitely grand. And the kingfisher, too. The ones that can still take to air, that is. From a congested day to a starkly lonely night, my environments become paradoxes every twelve hours. I eat my dinner listening to the sounds of silence. Not Paul Simon's hit single. The symphony of the croaking frog and buzzing insects do not find a match in any stalwarts compositions. The dance of the leaves and the rattle of the twigs is a duet unparalleled.

I relish those moments here, when I can just stop and stare at how graceful a bird takes to flight. I savour those hours, when not loneliness but solitude is bestowed on me and I can enjoy the grandeur of the night sky. Bright spots on a velvet gown. In the city, the accustomed buzz of the air-conditioner was my lullaby. Stars were an unfound treasure in a polluted sky.

So when I find myself in the midst of nature at its best, I now have all the time in the world to stop and look and admire that beautiful white bird. The CRANE.

That picture, that morning, put together some interesting elements of my new life here. I am certain that the thought and its many forms will strike me again in the coming days. Maybe every day. For now, it will be train, tractor and crane.

Postscript: I could have asked and answered the same questions in the city too. It is simply that rural India has given me a chance to show new sensitivity towards everything in my environment- man, machine, nature. I am thankful for that.