Years ago I had gone for an inquiry to a far off place in my district. It was to identify some land and submit my report to the Collector. I asked my driver Khajavali to get ready for the journey. The next day he was ready with the files and maps .We started early in the morning to reach the place because it was a long journey. The drive was picturesque, through a winding mountain path, glorious fields of sunflower and thick forests .Here and there a few huts were visible, an indication of a sparsely populated habitation. I was happy, as my routine work never gave me an opportunity to visit that part of the district. My driver told me stories of the place, its history and legend. Enjoying the sights of the drive we reached the village by 12’0 clock.
It was hot. The mid afternoon sun was blazing. I stopped my car and walked into the village. The meeting place or the Racchabanda where the elders, the gossiping public and the lazy guys meet for a talk or a siesta was desolate. Everything was still. The street was deserted. I could not see the presence of any body. The armchairs and the long chained swings which are laid out on the porch or the verandah for the afternoon nap or the post breakfast rest time of the residents were gone; locked and bolted inside the houses.
This was something out of a fictionary tale. I expected the people had gone in, out of respect for the hot season. The hot breeze cackled the dry leaves and raked up the dry sand which had spread around the cement platform of the Racchabanda. Under the shade of the magnificent neem tree, there were three dogs stretched out on the floor. The heat was difficult for them to manage. They were salivating with their tongues out. In the middle of this deep Himalayan silence was there a thousand breaths, waiting for this stranger to pass over? If so what were they fearful of? The eerie silence was threatening but also enchanting. When was the last time I had made this connect with the everlasting? I could not remember. It was rejuvenating but I had to abandon myself. Khajavali was busy with the maps.
I was about to knock on a door when he came to me and said, “Sir, this is not the village we are supposed to come to “. “Then what is the village?” I said. “It is another 10 kms from here but it has a similar name. So I got confused” he said. I said “Then let us get out of this place. I feel very uncomfortable “. He turned the car and we left the place. The sound of the engine sputtering smoke broke the deep silence of that village.
I felt a thousand eyes watching me from behind invisible screens. When we left the village road, I spoke to many about the desolate village —. —. None of them could recognize it. They had never heard of it. I searched the map in the Collectorate and the survey office for the unknown village which continued to haunt me.
Was it my night mare? It was certainly true. I had my driver who could support my version. For the next two months I had my driver who would support my story among unbelievers and skeptics. But it was a dark day when I heard the news after two months that my driver Khajavali was killed in a road accident. I had to live alone with that memory of the desolate village. I could turn to Vali’s children still, who said that their father had told them about the village. But they were too afraid to speak and would not say anything because their father was killed in his search for the desolate village at my command.
Determined, I ventured to locate the unknown village myself on a gloomy monsoon morning after the summer. Travelling the road that we had taken on that summer morn I led the car up to the landmarks that I remembered, but there was no sign of the village. There was no sign of any habitation. I decided to go on. The road seemed to stretch far and far. Yet there was no sign of the village. It seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. I alighted near a tree to have a drink and unwind. I was getting tense. Mean while the clouds had gathered into the sky. It was getting very dark. A cool wind started to pick up.”When it rains it pours for 2 or 3 days in these places. There are many rivulets and springs on the way. It is better we get back “said my driver. Reluctantly I agreed and by evening we got back to the town. It rained for 4 days. The townsfolk spoke of nothing but this deluge. The unknown village was left to me and the realm of my experience.
I have suffered from it forever and am still carrying an expression of forlornness and solitude.