Like many others in my village, I attended a government school where our studies were loosely supervised. At the heart of the village lay a sizable tank, serving diverse functions such as irrigation, fishing, laundry, and even as a public restroom, though these activities were segregated within its boundaries. Beyond the tank stood a hill, a constant source of fascination for me, tempting me with its hidden mysteries. I often pondered exploring its depths, knowing that beyond its peaks lay my mother’s ancestral home.
The village residences were also segregated by caste. Scheduled caste families resided on the outskirts, while Brahmins occupied homes near temples. Our own home was nestled among agricultural families, alongside others of our caste involved in bidi rolling or owning Kharkanas. In our village, alongside the presence of a doctor, there were also individuals who offered various treatments for psychological ailments, including those who claimed to possess spiritual healing abilities. Additionally, we had specialists for specific tasks, such as laundry services and haircuts. Certain individuals were designated for these tasks exclusively, with some focusing solely on laundry or haircutting while others abstained from such duties.
The school and temple served as prominent landmarks, guiding visitors to various destinations within the village. Behind my home lay a small tank, marking the village’s boundary, with rice fields stretching beyond it. The path from my home to the tank was treacherous, plagued by the presence of snakes and other hazards. We would tread cautiously, armed with sticks, aware of the areas notorious for snake sightings. It was a journey fraught with fear and apprehension.
During those years, our home was equipped with hand weaving machines, which eventually disappeared with the establishment of new electric mills. Over time, even these mills vanished, prompting the skilled weavers in our village to migrate to nearby towns like Mumbai, Sholapur, and Surat in search of livelihoods. Those years my father worked as a weaver in Mumbai while my mother rolled bidis. I don’t have many memories of my father from when I was young. It was a challenging time, with meals often scarce, a struggle that persisted for many years. I was born into a family constantly grappling with economic hardships until I managed to improve our situation.
I became intimately acquainted with these details because I was the designated letter writer and reader in my street. I vividly recall the narratives of hardship and longing conveyed in those letters, as families beseeched their husbands for financial support and yearned for their return. Witnessing their emotions and the fluctuations in their voices left a lasting impression on me, and the fruit I received for my service felt like a small reward for my efforts.
During those days, the postman held a revered position in the village, connecting everyone and commanding respect and care from the community. Evenings were spent at communal drinking spots, and summer days were filled with lively plays that some families relied on for sustenance. I witnessed the scarcity of cinema, with screenings reserved for special occasions, such as during summer breaks in school premises, transforming the village into a festive atmosphere.
In those days, electricity was a luxury we didn’t have; instead, we relied on kerosene lamps, which left our hair and noses soiled. In a time when the future seemed uncertain, much like others in my village, I learned the trade of rolling bidis. I remember being reluctant to learn how to roll bidis, but it seemed like the only option for my future.
In my village, both women and men rolled bidis, but they worked in separate places. Men would take breaks during working hours for tea, while women gathered in a designated area called ‘Karkhana’ to roll bidis. Tobacco, betel leaves, and cotton thread were supplied there, with different companies offering different colored threads — white, pink, and green being dominant. Each morning, we would deposit the bidis rolled the previous day and receive a new supply.
We used to cook outside our home, with my mother venturing into the forest once a week to collect dry sticks for cooking. Sometimes, we bought burning sticks from people who sold them as a profession (Lambadies). Breakfast was simple, usually consisting of tea and buns sold by Muslims on bicycles.
My parents sent us to school primarily because of the midday meal program, which offered lunch for all students, usually Upma and milk, in the afternoon. Even during those impoverished years, it was challenging to distinguish our poverty, as it seemed everyone belonged to the same economic class. Wealth was a rarity, and poverty was the norm. In those days, private schools were non-existent, so all children attended the same institution. The school was well-managed, with dedicated teachers who took their jobs seriously.
Academically, I wasn’t exceptional, just an average student blending in with my peers. I spent more time playing than studying, as childhood was filled with games, leaving little room for academic pursuits. It wasn’t until the 7th grade that I began to take my studies more seriously, motivated by rumors that evaluations in this class carried more weight.
Those years held their own heartbreaks, like when a girl from my class moved to another twon to study. I would eagerly anticipate summers and festival holidays, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I’m unsure if she ever knew I longed to see her. The pain of those youthful infatuations remained hidden, known only to me.
During those years, significant changes occurred in my life. My father relocated from Mumbai to Hyderabad and eventually back to our village, where he embarked on a new venture: a bicycle taxi business. My brother and I took charge of managing it, renting out six bicycles and tending to punctured tubes. Despite the passage of time, the essence of my village remains deeply ingrained within me. During my last visit, it felt as though the streets themselves were whispering tales of the past, with every stone and tree evoking memories of home.
Even in those days, there was a certain charm to life. I remember listening to the melodious songs of people rolling bidis at night, a backdrop of happiness and music enveloping the village. The fields echoed with laughter and playfulness. When I left the village, tears silently streamed down my face, a silent lament for the home I was leaving behind. It took me two decades to gather the courage to return, overshadowed by feelings of shame and fear due to my father’s departure on sour terms. My last visit was two years ago, prompted by the passing of a relative, yet I could only bring myself to stay for a day. This year, I hope to muster the strength to linger a few days longer, to observe and absorb every aspect of my beloved village with care.
