Roxy

Roxy! The named sounded fascinating to me. As a ten year old boy with a reasonable topographic knowledge about western Odisha I was familiar with the predominantly tribal nomenclature of this mountain belt region. Tumkela, Bhalulata, Lahunipara, Bolani, Barbil....to name a few. Why, our own Rourkela, in spite of a steel factory and a decent township to boast of, fares no better as a moniker. But Roxy seemed out of the world- so European! Might be the handiwork of some isolated British colony long ago, I derived.

“It's a small hamlet on the hill along the highway leading to Barbil,” my father, Mr Anirban Saha, relaxed on his armchair as he passed the piece of information to his threesome audience: me, my mother, and Piyali- my elder sister.

“I had a glimpse of the village once on my way to Barbil.” My father enjoyed emphasising his importance as a bank cashier, especially while in front of the family. “It looked picturesque with an old world charm.” He caressed his pot belly fondly.

In spite of his air of importance my father Anirban was a family man to the core, and performed his duties religiously, as was the case in hand. Piyali had graduated recently, and a match had been fixed for her. Both my parents were against delaying a girl's marriage beyond a definitive period. Get the girl married before she loses her feminine charm, used to be the motto of most parents in those days of seventies. My sister Piyali was not satisfied though, in spite of her groom to be being eligible in all respects. She wanted to study further.

The marriage was due in a month, and my father was to visit Roxy to deliver the invitation card personally to a distant cousin of my mother. Jhunu, the cousin, generally kept aloof from her relations lest her husband Pritesh is rebuked for his financial incapability. But the case of Piyali was different. Jhunu herself had expressed her desire to attend the marriage as she had developed a motherly affection for Piyali somewhere down the line.

And we, the Sahas, take pride in our hospitality and we make the personal touch obvious while inviting someone in a function as important as marriage.

The next two days would be Saturday and Sunday. My father would head for Roxy early in the morning tomorrow. In a couple of hours he would be at his destination, and would return on Sunday.

Here I saw my opportunity. A loss of half-day schooling wouldn't amount to much, and with some luck if I could convince father I could accompany him to Roxy. In addition to its catchy name, the prospect of a rustic village caught my imagination.

I was fortunate. In spite of his initial and characteristic denial, he agreed.

We started early in the morning by bus. My father's familiarity with the route was evident as we disembarked at a place called Lahunipara for a temporary halt. This place was known for a particular sweetmeat that he got packed for my aunt's place in addition to having a few bites ourselves. It felt celestial!

Well, as I reflect back I realise ten is an age when so many things seem heavenly. It is the age you discover and explore newer things and possibilities. It is age you feel like being a Columbus or a Magellan!

So did I. As the bus moved slowly up the serpentine terrain roads, the trees, the gorges, the ravines- everything seemed to have a unique hue of its own. Even the half-naked shepherds on the hills looked like Mexican cow boys!

The first thing I noticed as we got down at Roxy was the biting cold that hit us even at about ten in the morning. November end presented with a pleasant chill in our town making our afternoon cricket sessions enjoyable. But the piercing nature of cold was not anticipated at this hour. The first thing I do is to put on my pullover as soon as I reach home, I thought. To add to the woe, there was a thin film of fog that prevailed in the air.

It was five minutes’ walk uphill along a plateau to reach Jhunu-aunty and Pritesh-uncle's house. It was a shanty made of clay with thatched roof like many in a group of say twenty similar shelters. There was a boundary constituted of bamboo slices and twigs that provided a poor protection from stray cattle to the nondescript plantation within. And there was a gate too, of similar fragility, which we carefully opened to get into the house.

If 'overwhelmed' is the minimal term I could use for the response of the couple of the house, then let be it. In effect, it was more than that. My uncle and aunt perceived it beyond their imagination that the hallowed Anirban Saha would come personally to invite them to his daughter's wedding! That too with his convent-studying son.

And the impact showed. They did beyond their means. I and my dad were provided the better of the two rooms to stay put, with possibly the only decent quilt they had at their disposal. I wondered how the four were to spend the wintery night.

Four? That was the most interesting part of my visit. They had twin sons; Ribhu and Bibhu. They were my age, well almost. I was fortunate to be accepted by the friendly twin. They were about to go out with their only cow to a nearby pasture. They took me along with. The cow grazed while I got close to them. Ribhu and Bibhu had glittering eyes that were fearless and dreamy. They studied in class four of a government school ten kilometres away from their village. From them I learned of the place, of the people. I learned how Pritesh, in spite of being offered a decent job in a nearby dolomite mine refused to go, considering he would not leave his tribal friends behind. In fact, other than them all others in the village were tribal in origin. In struck me to be extraordinary considering Pritesh's bare primary school background.

However, my respect for Pritesh took a nosedive as I saw him in the evening. I, Ribhu and Bibhu were talking to him when he playfully called a brood of his pet chickens with some wheat grains in his hand. The flock came, and started pecking the cereal from his hand innocently. At an opportune moment Pritesh caught hold of a fat hen amongst the group, and culled it instantly. It seemed natural; to Pritesh, to Ribhu-Bibhu, and even to the poultry companions of the freshly demised one. But it shocked me, it seemed treacherous on part of Pritesh. Ribhu-Bibhu informed me that it was a norm whenever they wanted to have chicken at dinner. Their eyes gleamed at the prospect of having a sumptuous dinner. Maybe I was immature, and didn't realise the basic realities of life.

Things went for worse when the other hens and cocks fought amongst themselves to have a bite of the leftover organs of their hitherto peer! The scene bordered on being macabre, but I remained stunned at the ease with which the others looked into the incident.

As a result, neither could I eat well, nor could I sleep well in spite of the comfort of the quilt.

We took off the next morning. Pritesh and Ribhu-Bibhu came to see us off till the bus-stop. Ribhu-Bibhu held my hand with a warmth that was touching, and enough to build a permanent bond.

But it happens in fictions only. It lingered for a few days; the plateau of Roxy, the serene smile of Ribhu-Bibhu, the diminutive and yet determined face of Pritesh, his poultry, his treachery with a pet of his, the gratified expression Of Jhunu- all kept coming, but only for a few days henceforth.

Then came newer thoughts, newer challenges, and newer goals to push Roxy into oblivion. Piyali got married, Pritesh made his insignificant presence on the occasion along with his family, and was gone before I could realise. That marked the end of my Roxy connection.

Or that's what I thought. Forty five years have gone by. So are gone my boyhood days along with its exuberance, dreams, imagination, and the romance of discovery. I find myself a pragmatic and prosaic bundle of 'successful' being. Everything contributed in my pragmatism; my engineering studies, my high profile snake-ladder job in Rourkela Steel Plant, dog-eat-dog transformation in cultural milieu, and last but no way least- my ever nagging wife!

We party in our high-end club, we drink and discuss about practically nothing, we have a sprawling bungalow as our company residence, a jazzy car to boast of, and a decent bank balance to feel secured. My mother is the only reminiscent of my childhood. I lost my father few years back. Then there is Lipika, the fruit of the conjugal effort of me and Suman, my wife.

It is for this daughter of us we are on our way to Barbil. Our Honda City is carrying me and Suman on the long forgotten path to Barbil, on the way of which lies Roxy. This time around also the trip has something to do with a marriage. My daughter Lipika is in a relationship with one of her colleagues at a MNC. We know the boy. Only it is a formal visit to his parents at Barbil to fix the details of the ceremony.

It is nine in the winter morning, and we are passing through Lahunipara. I throw an instinctive glance to my left. The sweet shop is still there, with minor renovations. It still looks ordinary though.

“How about a cup of tea?” I ask Suman.

She twitches her nose in a snobbish manner. 'Here! Of all the places!'

Not that I don’t expect the response. I only have taken a chance. From nowhere my demised father reminds of the delicacy of chhenapoda over here. I miss him, his potbelly, and his important countenance.

And we move on. The same ravines, the same gorges, the same shepherds. Neither do I relate them with the fragrance of the discoverer I was, nor do I relish the serenity of the landscape. I rather look at my watch and sigh, another three hours to Barbil! Only thing that engages me is the smooth purr of my car. I love to drive.

But we take a break alright, this time on behest of Suman. In another hour more we reach a posh restaurant which looked almost at par with those at our city (our quaint town has upgraded to a city by now). Suman considers the joint worth a halt, and this speaks volumes of the class of the restaurant!

I park the car, and we get down. I look at the signpost on it: Badal's Corner, Roxy.

Roxy! I marvel. Is it the same old hamlet that contained about a score of huts forty five years back? In addition to Badal’s Corner there are several other modernised shopping joints with their glass walls and flashy boards. Several young people in snugly fitted outfits are commuting in motorised two wheelers. Interestingly, most of the population over there seem tribal in origin. But they look enlightened enough. Some schoolchildren in uniform are also to be seen in a school bus. On the bus it is inscribed: Pritesh Memorial School, Roxy.

Is it the same Pritesh I knew? I wonder. But the Pritesh I met long back was a diminutive bald man preoccupied with hiding his poverty. How can it be the same Pritesh! How many Priteshes I know? Suman has entered the café, possibly to avail the washroom facilities.   

I catch hold of a young couple entering the café. “Excuse me,” I ask, indicating the school bus, “do you know who this Pritesh is?”

There emerges a grateful grin on the couple’s face. “Who doesn’t know Pritesh Ghosh? It’s for him we stand here with pride. After his demise his twin sons have taken over. They’ve expanded their business, and made us grow with them.” It is the young lady who speaks.

“Are they Ribhu and Bibhu by any chance?”

“Yes sir. Ribhu and Bibhu sir are our cult figures.” The man folded his hands and touched on his forehead. “Do you know them?”

“Yes, vaguely,” I answer in a dazed state.

We have coffee and snacks, and ask for bill. “The owner wants to meet you, sir,” the waiter replies.

“Can an uncle take money from his nephew for a cup of coffee? Let me have the pleasure, Prosad.” A jolly hefty old man takes a chair in our front.

Someone called me Prosad after long. I almost had forgotten my old-fashioned pet name. Its use was limited to my mother’s side of relatives. I look at the man inquisitively. He is smiling at me expectantly.

The smile seems familiar. I exercise my brain cells hard. It strikes a chord. He is a maternal uncle alright, but a distant one. He is a brother to Jhunu, whose house I visited forty five years back with my father. I have seen him on occasions, last one being ten years back when he met me at my residence in search of a livelihood. He has been like that, a tramp, a confirmed bachelor, and always unsettled. I only had to make arrangements for his stay at my house overnight at the request of my mother, and made no efforts to arrange some sort of livelihood for him, although I could have. As he left the next morning, I and Suman thought it to be a good riddance.

 It is evident he doesn’t carry any grudge.

“Badal-mamu! How come you own such a big place?” I am stunned at the fairy tale state of affairs.

“How else, without the help of Ribhu-Bibhu?” Badal heaves a big sigh. “No education to back me up, no experience to show; only they can work such magic.”

The Ribhu-Bibhu thing is getting on my nerves by now. “What do they do?”

Badal smiles indulgingly. “Better ask what they don’t. It all started with the efforts of Pritesh. He taught his tribal neighbours to work unitedly, and how to do community farming. A joint venture by all made a large stretch of land on the hills fertile. But he died of tuberculosis before he could see his dreams come true. Ribhu-Bibhu had just passed their higher secondary exams by then. They took over from there discontinuing their further studies. The farmland developed, and yielded some profit which was distributed equally. Then the two joined hands with some other educated tribal boys to take a loan from bank and took an iron ore mine on lease. This brought prosperity in the region. In came the schools, a college, bank, and subsidiary businesses like that of me. My shop is, however, a total gift from these two few years back from now. Whosoever is the party in power, Ribhu-Bibhu have the final say in the affairs of Roxy.”

I feel belittled in front of those dreamy-eyed boys of yore. I, with my education and position had felt constrained to help a poor relative of mine, but look at them! With their inadequate institutional qualification they not only grew tall, but brought others up irrespective of blood relation. I wonder whether going to a college helps or spoils.

“Can’t we meet Ribhu-Bibhu once, Mamu?” asks Suman, to my utter surprise. She is aware of some distant relatives of mine in this place, but has never given them much thought, like me. Maybe the present development has been intriguing enough.

Badal looks at his watch. It is ten thirty. “Let me see. With some luck, maybe.” He rings up over his cell phone. “They are still at home. Let’s go there. Jhunu-didi is also eager to meet you.

It is a short drive. Now a metal road glorifies the hitherto pedestrian path to the residential colony. The old shanties have given way to small, but beautiful concrete houses. Only the number has increased manifold. Jhunu-aunty’s house remains at the same spot, only in grossly modernised form. Jhunu has grown old, but looks the same humble self in her white attire of widow. Ribhu and Bibhu, though similar in age to me, look younger and energetic with more maturity in their dreamy eyes. Their respective wives accompany them. To all of them we retain the great respectability as we had years back. We have a pedigree!

We exchange pleasantries, ruminate our past, and discuss our present. Jhunu sheds tears remembering her husband and my father. I look at the spot Pritesh-uncle culled the hen in our honour. The place is a cemented courtyard now adorned with flowering plants at its border.

“I wish Ribhu-Bibhu would pursue their studies like you,” sighes Jhunu at one point. “But they won’t leave Roxy for long.”

Ribhu-Bibhu look at each other, and smile humbly. So do their wives. None protests or detests the words. They respect their mother.

It is afternoon. We are on our way to Barbil. Both of us are silent since we left Roxy. Good that they didn’t emulate me, I sigh, as I give way to a passing truck.