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| Dakhin Rai |
It was a Saturday evening. My sister Debarati entered the house and looked at me conspiratorially, "How about going to Sunderbans tomorrow? She was working on a project with Art of Living, called "Light a home." She had to visit the islands of the delta region and distribute solar lamps to the villagers.
I beamed, "Of course, I am all excited to meet the Tigers of Sunderbans." I was joking! I am no female Jim Corbett. The closest thing to tiger I have ever handled is its tamer cousin - the cat.
A car would come to pick us up at the crack of dawn at sharp 4:30. I cringed. "Why 4:30?"
"It is a long drive to Canning and a longer 'boating' to the islands of Sunderbans," my sister reasoned. "Besides, three more people would join us. I have to pick them up too."
We were a team of 5 ladies. Women power for you! Subhra Ray and her band of merry women consisted of my sister and me, and two more I had never met. One was a friendly chatterbox and the other a sleepy head. My sister does everything with a missionary zeal. She took the responsibility of pulling all of us out of our slumber on a Sunday morning, with no excuses accepted. You can cry, complain, whine, get angry at her, but you have to be in the car on time!
The friendlier of the two chose to sit beside me. I was not feeling particularly chatty, but the lady seemed quite oblivious about it. She had narrated her whole life story to me by the time we reached Canning. I bore her incessant chatter for her tasty "jhal-muri." I got down from the car with a stiff neck and a splitting headache.
We would take a boat from Canning. Subhradi had arranged for everything. A volunteer was waiting; he had a vessel ready, loaded with 400 solar lamps.
The boat started. Subhra Ray explained why there was a need for solar lights in Sunderbans. The islands did not enjoy electricity like mainland Kolkata. Ganga formed a watery impediment. Drawing electric lines over this vast, temperamental river were impossible. So the upshot was that these poor folks had to go back to the dark ages with every sunset.
On arriving at the first island, the villagers came out in hordes, giving us a royal welcome. I felt like a minister! I gave a small nod here and a winning smile there. The local volunteers of Art of Living took us to a neat, small, government school building. After several rounds of lectures by the Panchayat Pradhan, my sister, and Subhra Ray, the lamps got distributed. Beaming villagers came in disciplined lines to take their trophy - the solar light!
An expert explained how the lamp worked. By this time, I had come down from my "ministerial" pedestal and looked around with curiosity, ignoring the annoying chatter of my companion and the whining of the other. I smiled at the villagers. Not exactly in a pleasant camaraderie, it was more a "holier than thou." Are we not doling out the lamps that would change their lives forever?
My sister and Subhra Ray, however, had a very different attitude. They felt for these simple, hapless people. The government was busy dolling up Kolkata. There was a street light after every 500 meters in the city, and for these remote islands, there was one for every 5 km. The disparity was too obvious!
The event got over with many more boring lectures and false promises from the local government representative. The villagers offered us lunch. I had not expected food on this trip. I had come armed with packets of biscuit and water. The lunch was a pleasant surprise. It was a veritable feast! The villagers had got up early, taken a bath, and then cooked this tasty fare. I was touched! Yes, I have heard volunteers say, "When you do Guru's work, don't worry, He will arrange for everything!"
The food was simple, delicious and had the love and warmth of home-cooked food. My barriers had come down, and I gave the old lady who was serving us a big hug. She was touched and had tears in our eyes. I gulped down mine. It was one heart speaking to another. Souls were communicating in the language of love.
We left that island for another. A tasty lunch and a cool breeze blowing over Ganga's placid waters were so pleasant that I felt like getting a quick nap. My sister lectured I could always sleep when we went back home I should enjoy the nature. So I sat on the deck obediently watching the white clouds in the azure sky, and the Sundari forest around us. Staying awake was impossible. I suggested we meditate! At least I could close my eyes, under that pretext. Debarati agreed thankfully.
While we were thus contemplating, Subhra Ray thought of canceling the trip to the last island, as it was quite some distance away. The villagers insisted we visit them. They had waited for us patiently from the morning.
The sun was on its way home when we arrived there. This island was the last Indian territory. Bangladesh was on the other side. Tigers - the Dakhin Rais of Sunderban- were their neighbors. After finishing our distribution, we hurried back to the waiting carts that had brought us to the venue.
When we came back to our boat on the cycle carriage, the villager who drove us, related their life in a very matter of fact manner. He was not whining nor did he glorify it like the movies. Hospitals were non-existent. They had to bring every patient by the cart to the boat and then take the vessel to the mainland - Kolkata! Shocked? That is a reality. They live in that reality. When cyclones come, and that happens quite often, Ganga rises. They put sand sacks as a barricade. The last flood had left their land infertile. The water came in from the sea and had salt. They could not grow their main crops. I heard sympathetically. They would prefer a little cooperation than sympathy.
As the cart rolled on, the dusk gave way to a condensed darkness. We were apprehensive of facing the Royal Bengal Tigers. The villagers said quite casually, "Dakhin Rai will never harm you. You should pay your respect to him. If you do, he goes away. We offer him food. He never does any harm." Describing my feelings on that day would be difficult. I was not scared, but I had this intense excitement of suddenly seeing a yellow and black stripe amongst the undergrowth. No, we did not have our Corbett moment. We never got a glimpse of the legendary striped creature.
When we reached the riverbank to board our boat, the sky looked foreboding. A new problem came up. Our boatman refused to take the boat out. He said a cyclone was brewing; boating would be risky. Cyclone? The news did mention something of the sort, but that had changed course and gone to Orissa. Why did it change its mind and come to Sunderban?
Subhra Ray refused to spend the night on the island and become a burden to the villagers. The villagers insisted we stay back. They said it was not safe. We were guests and like God and we were Guruji's volunteers so that sanctified us. After a lengthy debate, we decided to come back, after all, Kolkata was just across the river.
The boat started chugging along the Ganga but started spluttering and groaning when we were in mid-Ganges. The cyclone had reached the Ganga with its full force then. The boat swayed precariously. Our smugness vanished, we were feverishly chanting "Om Namah Shivaya." The storm abated for awhile. The boatman struggled with the vessel, powerful winds, and defiant current. The boat finally moaned and stopped.
We were in the middle of a furious storm. A mighty river which looked dangerously hostile, in a small container that could topple any moment, and which now refused to move. What on earth was happening?
We were shit-scared, frightened, startled, afraid!
The second lady, the sleepy head, was also an extra-smart idiot. Earlier in the day, she was polluting the river by throwing her candy wraps, plastic, and what not, in it. My sister told her not to. She continuously had one thing after another. A complete glutton! And she called my sister every time she threw something in the river. She had such a triumphant look of moronic defiance when she did that stupid thing. Some people are born without brains. She was one of those specimens. God forgets to put that organ in the box up there or perhaps makes it a vestigial part for them. She was peeing in her salwar now, whimpering. I felt vindictively happy. Serves her right!
I panicked. I was angry and particularly on that idiot of a woman sitting on the deck. We had requested everyone to chant earlier, and this silly female scoffed us off and preferred to have tea. Hope that was her last one! I knew we could all drown and not just her. It was all her fault, though. Who told her to mess with the holy river? And gluttony? God has a particular dislike for that. Has He not mentioned it in the Bible?
Gone! There was absolutely no hope. The phone rang. It was my husband. He was wild. Next, my father-in-law took the call; he was in an even worse mood! I heard their ranting, feeling quite miserable and angry. Did I tell the cyclone to come from Orissa? Suddenly I switched off. Nothing entered me, and a song came to my head. A song I heard long back, and it goes
In the eye of the storm, You remain in control
And in the middle of the war, You guard my soul
You alone are the anchor, when my sails are torn
Your love surrounds me in the eye of the storm.
My anger and panic went. I pulled myself together. My faith returned, and I felt strong and brave. The "Om Namah Shivaya" became louder than before, and now everyone joined, even our boatmen. And they were Muslims! My anger on my companion also vanished. And outside, the storm ceased! The dark clouds were gone. The boat started chugging. What a transformation and what a miracle!
After that our journey back home was eventless. I will never forget the dark, dramatic sky, the wild winds, the torrential rain with only a small boat as our shelter. That night revealed us a power that could protect or destroy. With a Guru it protects, He ensures that!
