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JOURNEYS

Photo: The Hindu Photo Library

Gandhiji and Satyagraha: Another journey that began in Champaran.

It is late afternoon as we come into Bettiah. A dust haze covers the town. The market area is even more crowded than normal because the Chief Minister has a public meeting in town. Banners have been strung across the road from one pillar to another. Harried policeman are stationed at street corners to manage the flow of people. The meeting is already underway inside Maharaja Stadium. Far behind the stands, there are rows of stately white Ambassadors and brand new silver Scorpios, all keeping a safe distance from the Chief Minister’s helicopter. Although the aircraft must have landed several hours ago, the dust around it has not yet settled completely. Inside the stadium, there are thousands of people gathered to hear their leader speak. Standing on a high stage at one end of the stadium, the Chief Minister is addressing the crowd. He speaks passionately of the importance of educating girls, of why all children must go to school. His language is simple and direct. He speaks about opportunity and hope. There is thunderous applause from the thousands. In a while the speech is done. The Chief Minister’s helicopter leaves in a whirlwind of dust and swirling hot air. Thousands of awe-struck eyes follow his ascent into the sky and watch till the helicopter fades away into the clouds.

The circuit house is emptying out as we arrive. Since the Chief Minister has gone, all the other politicians are leaving too. Soon the rooms are free for us. The mansion once belonged to the Bettiah Raj. The old grandeur is still visible in bits and pieces. There are remnants of colourful mosaic tiles around the fire place. Broken in many places, the trellis work in the railings of the wide open balconies on the first floor is still intricate. The bevelled mirror in the corridor is cracked and yellowing, and reflects the changing times. There is no electricity. The mosquito net has holes in it. Mosquitoes are buzzing in and out at will. None of the many doors and windows leading in and out of the room can properly shut. But lying alone in the dead of night in this vast room with high ceilings, listening to the night sounds from the massive gardens surrounding the building, it is not hard to imagine what this building must have been like in its heyday.

We leave early next morning. Two hours on a dusty road brings us to Lauriya. The tall stone pillar stands in the middle of vast open field. There are no trees close by. The pillar is dust coloured, smooth and still shiny. On the top of the pillar are the familiar lions — the stamp of the kingdom of Ashoka. We are far in a corner of India. Around us, the north-eastern rim of Uttar Pradesh, the north-western edge of Bihar and the southern boundary of Nepal are blending together. It is May but the air is light and cool. We cannot see the foothills of the Himalayas but we can feel them.

There is no one around; only a timeless mid morning breeze blowing across the meadow. A low fence circles the pillar. There are fresh red flowers at the base, a daily offering from local people. On the pillar, there is graffiti. I move closer to read what is written. It is not the usual scribblings, names and dates coupled with each other, common features adorning monuments around the country. Here there are names and dates as well but not from now. The carefully carved out letters are in English … “E.C. Moore 1792.” Above the layer of English are characters in Arabic and higher than that the writing seems to be in Pali. Higher up, the pillar is smooth again. Smooth, as smooth as it can be after standing for two thousand years in the rain, wind and sun.

We continue ahead through the fields and past the canals, past the remains of indigo huts — neel ghars. We are shown the home of the movie star Manoj Bajpai. We are told where Prakash Jha, the director, lives — all celebrities from the territory that we are crossing. And finally we are at our destination.

Gandhiji, Kasturba and their friends and companions spent a year in this quiet, out-of-the-way village. While Gandhiji was busy, Kasturba set up a school to work with the children in the area. We enter the compound of the ashram. There is no one there except an elderly caretaker. He is very surprised to see us. Usually people come only on Gandhiji’s birthday or on his death anniversary. The original room, with the low roof and rudimentary walls, radiates calm and peace. But many other structures have come up in the compound. Some are complete but unused, others abandoned half way through. The large mango tree near the gate is laden with raw mangoes. We imagine that Kasturba and her friends planted this tree. Biting into a sour, sharp raw mango, I wonder if Kasturba ever got to taste the fruit from her own tree.

New A young boy has been following us around. As we sit in the paved open space in front of the original ashram, he sits down with us. He is shy and does not speak but his eyes are curious. I look at his wrist. He is wearing a cheap looking but unusual watch with two dials. There is a different time showing in each circle. The boy is amused by my careful observation. I ask him about his watch. “You don’t know? It is from China,” he says, “Comes here from Nepal”.

Champaran has seen many empires. It has been a crossroad for many a significant journey in the history of our country. They say Gautam Buddha went this way from Vaishali to Kushinagar. Ashoka left his indelible mark on the countryside. The indigo plantations of the British times have long gone, but Gandhiji’s journey almost a hundred years ago is still strong in people’s memory. We are just some common recent travellers. As another night falls on the fields and farms, only the mounds of grass stand watchful; silent witnesses of the empires past, present and future.

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