Back to the roots

Getting back to the city is always so difficult. You know you are soon in for several traps that include human desires, loss, petty politics, broken relationships and even broken sense of self. You sense these ominous cycles more so right after you are back from a trippy visit to a small tribal village in the hinterlands of Bengal.
Jhilimili village, in Bankura district, around 12 hours drive from Calcutta, was a perfect getaway for my jaded, depressed mind. The village was captured by Maoist insurgents some years ago.
The entire region seemed to be perennially intoxicated with its dense cluster of mehul trees, from which a local alcoholic drink — mahua — is brewed. I sensed that intoxication everywhere — in the way the local tribal women in their cheap colourful sarees flirted with tourists in local haat; a herd of goats jumped around the cliffs; and also in the way a group of urbanites from Calcutta smoked up mariuana by the side of the river and gradually lost themselves in its universe-winning beauty. There were vast tracts of green farm lands on all sides; forest of shaal, shegun and mehul trees; lakes with tranquil, pellucid water; and beyond all this, green hills.
At some areas, the roads laid with red soil had beautifully painted mud-houses on either side. And at some other areas, the winding roads bordered with huge colourful trees looked like the illusory road to renunciation.
The air had a faint nip and was fresh. We lived in a beautiful bungalow at the corner of the village. Everyday we woke up to chirping of unknown birds and rustling of leaves. The cook delighted us with homemade rural breakfast of luchi (deep fried flatbread) and vegetables. The villagers seemed to have everything in their favour — the vast intensity of nature, calm and peace and love.
“Then what is lacking in your life?” I asked a 65-year-old farmer on a rain-soaked morning. “Paper notes. We do not have cash,” he said quietly.

Meghna Maiti