Milan, my friend

Creativity, I thought, is a work of happiness. Words, I thought, spring out when you are happy. Because words come when thoughts form. And thoughts form when you are stirred to think. Pain has a numbing affect. And so when pain comes, you just withdraw. All within you shut down in numbness. Then there are no thoughts and no words carrying them down.

But that was what I thought.

Sometimes, things change. Like they did today.

Today I met pain. I met him right in my bed, in the morning hour. But unlike before, I didn’t shut down. Instead, I felt the need to talk. To write. To bring the words out.
And so here I am.

And here I’m looking back. Going back there where I was 5 years ago.

It’s a small town. Once the tree of Agar grew in abundance there. People took the bark off the trees and burnt them in the temple. The mother of all perfumes, this Agar is what today’s ‘Agarbatti’ came from. And then this same agar helped the place get its current name: Agartala.


Milan Debbarma had been living there for past 11 years. His living was supported by sale of bamboo shoots. And when there were no bamboo shoots to sell, he worked as a daily wage laborer. He climbed trees, plucked coconuts, betel nuts, made bamboo fences around tiny gardens, spread ‘chan’ grass over the roofs of fellow poor people’s huts. For a meal and Rs.50, he would do any of those and catch fish from your pond or clean them of water weeds, cut grass or even milk your nastiest cow for you. Yah, he was an everyman’s right hand.

The day I met Milan, there was a dusk to dawn curfew in the town. And I had landed myself to report on the incident that had resulted into this curfew: An attack by militants on a village on the outskirts of Agartala. I spent the day visiting a hospital, seeing 23 bodies in white sheet (6 of them babies under 10), and rows of animals, tithed to bamboo poles, where they had died, burnt when the huts of the villages were set alight and when humans ran out to save themselves. They were shot of course and so there was none to come to the house and free the animals. Now here they were…their blackened, charred bodies telling the stories of agony inexplicable.

As I was spending hours taking notes and practicing my brave act of not crying, it was getting dark. And then it was dark. And then it downed – the fact that I had to return a long way back to the town, to be safe.

But safety was a 3-hour journey away. And by the time I made it there, the tiny town had shut down its shops and shutter of the lodges. The curfew hour had started.

I had a place to lodge myself. But I had nothing to eat. And I was hungry. And I felt lonely too. The memories of the day, my first encounter with the horrors of terrorism and mass massacre had formed a tight knot in my throat and I needed to spit it out.

This is when I met Milan. He stayed in a hut that stood right next to the tiny house I was staying in. He had seen me coming in and going out. Now in the dark of a curfew night, I saw him coming. He knew I was hungry. And now he had come to invite me to share his dinner.

We ate ‘daal-bhat’ in the semi darkness of his hut. Lights were not forbidden, but put out in the fear of attracting attention. Sometimes, when there’s a combing search operation on, even a broad smile is seen as a suspicious act. There is a general air of distrust and everybody is a potential killer or conspirator, and therefore guilty of some unproven crime. Living in complete anonymity is therefore what everyone tries. Not lighting a lamp is an act of that anonymity. Maybe even an attempt of being non-existent. And Milan did have a reason to be non-existent.

In Agartala, the deads were Bengalis and the killer’s tribals. Milan was a tribal man, living in a Bengali area. There was a constant fear of being the subject of a retaliation. Of being lynched. Stabbed in the dark maybe. Although he was just another poor laborer. And an everyone’s helper.

‘I left village because there we were constantly ordered by the militants to shelter them, to give them food. If we didn’t, we were beaten Then, one day I ran away with my wife. Came here. I thought I had escaped’.

In the dark, I didn’t see his face. But the pain that I could sense in his voice was hard to miss. Leaving the village to escape violence. But now here he was, the easy poor scapegoat. Being held for a hundred crimes he hasn’t committed. Being answerable for all wrongs that he never did. Carrying a terrible burden of guilt and conscious that is sourced elsewhere.

‘People like us spend all time earning their next meal. How could I ever think of anything else?All I want is to find work every day. I pay Rs. 200 rent for this hut. I hope one day I could live in my own hut’.

Such a small dream. For a man who lived in a country that is reaching out to the moon soon. A country that, among it’s citizens, has world’s 5th richest person.

But then this was the dream of a nobody.

And it did die that way – without coming true.

Milan didn’t die of stabbing though. Nobody lynched him either. Ambari, however, continued to see more shooting and bodies of dead men and women and kids and cattle kept being added to the previous list. But this week the town of Agartala was ripped apart by a number of bomb blasts.

Milan was helping a friend sell clothes in GB market, one of the blast venues. Poor vendors, selling hand me downs to poor laborers shopping for Durga puja. It was puja time. The only time they could afford to buy new clothes, the only time to be worry-less and happy. His name appeared in the newspaper next day, as one the seriously injured. His right leg was blown off knee down.

Early this morning he died, of excessive bleeding. It was this message that I woke up and began my day with.

Death is the ultimate end of everything, even of worries and fear. But I wish Milan had been freed of fear and alive as well.

Its hard not to miss him.

Travelling through Myanmar(Gag-the order of the day)

Travelling down the Indo-Myanmar Friendship Road, for a split moment, I had an illusion of homecoming. The road –a wide, rain-drenched one (it opened on Feb’ 2001), was smooth and had that signature deserted look of any hilly town. Now and then I saw locals, mainly girls, in their bright blouse and longyis – walking by, their faces hidden under the made-in China umbrellas.

In the ghost of a jeep, I found myself sharing a seat with 3 people. The youngest of them, Htun, is our driver and guide and in this rainy, stormy weather, also the saviour, – who can take us to the destination. The greatest love of his life seemed to be chewing betel nut. The 2nd one, an elderly Burman Buddhist and the 3rd person,(yes, another Mr.Htun), a primary school teacher.

We were going towards Kalaymyo, the next big town after Tamu. The cyclone had hit the country 2 days before. There was news of great loss of property and life. Being an Indian, and a media worker at that, I was itching to talk about it, to discuss it, to hear some argument in favor and against the government-taken measures. If nothing at all, I expected people to curse, to complaint…

But minutes passed and then hours, but nobody spoke a word. On the way we stopped twice, first to have afternoon meal (a huge plate of rice with tangy fish curry) and then for a ‘routine check’ by armed soldiers. And I was amazed to see how silently people moved. They ate, chewed betel nuts, some smoked and others just sat there. On the veranda of the bamboo thatched motel, waiting for the journey to resume.

Later that night I was eating dinner at hotel ‘Hollywood’ - a 2 storied house that served as lodge cum bar cum tea house and sold rice, fermented fish chutney and sour apple beer, I saw people gathering in to watch TV. I expected them to switch on the news channel. Instead, the colour TV monitor brought on a Thai film, about a boy and girl and their unrequited love.

It took me 4 more days to learn of and understand this silence, that is, until I met Alex in Kalewa. Alex or Alexander Kwang was a fellow wanderer like me. Unofficially, however, he was a human rights activist. It was Alex who told me that the ruling military junta in Burma neglected everything in the country except the politics. Yes, you could do all illegal businesses but you must make sure not to be involved in politics. This is also the case with many so-called pro-democracy cease-fire groups, which had entered into sorts of agreements with the regime during the past eleven years. Burmese government claimed that, as of now total 17-armed ethnic groups had entered into cease-fire agreements. It has allowed these groups (in Burmese ?Nyein Chan Ye? groups) to operate both legal and illegal businesses with freedom in many parts of the country. These groups come and go in their "areas" with uniforms, guns and their own flags.

But is talking about a natural calamity, a disaster as big and as damaging as a super cyclone a political activity? Yes, said Alex, because it would gradually lead to the action taken or the lack of it. And there would be criticism. And that would be politics. If you were a peace-loving citizen, you would keep quiet, go home and pray –that’s what the Junta said and that’s what you did, if you wanted to keep your freedom of movement intact.

That people were not allowed to speak against the government was not the biggest surprise for me though. What surprised me is how life went on despite that. How people lived their life in absolute normalcy, with the gagging order ruling every sphere of life!

And that’s when I learnt…even peace could be an illusion!

Travelling through Myanmar(The journey begins)

The first thing that you have to deal with and of course with great difficulty, once you cross the international border in Tamu, is remembering names.

To begin with, every name sounds same. Maybe that’s because your ears are still ringing from the continuous journey on rickety buses and then on even more sickly-looking Burmese autos, or maybe because you just haven’t heard so many names with so many ‘n’s before. Whatever the reason is, you can’t help asking everybody again and again to repeat and even after they have already obliged 3-4 times, you still can’t quite get it, and therefore, still can’t help feeling stupid.

The first person I met after entering Burmese soil is Ko Htun Win, the army soldier on duty in Tamu bazaar. The second, the man who sold me a bunch of bananas, was Daw Than . The third, the young urchin who seemed to have curious mixed feelings of ‘who the hell are you’ and ‘love at first sight’ for me, told me his name was U Ngwe Thein. Hmm…no medal for guessing by then I had already forgotten the name of the soldier.

Mercifully, I didn’t stay long enough in one place to face the same person again and again and address him more than once. And mercifully, I looked smiling and strange and young enough to be forgiven, even if I did commit the sin of forgetting names.

But when it came to places, I had no such escape routes. 2 days before I crossed Tamu, I was in Chandel(Manipur), where, over a hot plate of mouth watering Changpa-me (rice gruel, cooked with chunks of smoked pork and herbs) I tried byhearting names of places I might be travelling through …. Nam Monta, Htan Ta Bin, and Man Maw, Ah Myint, Homelin, Thamanthi….

Later, on my way 70 km long journey from Chandel to Moreh town, which leads to Tamu –the first Burmese town I would be in, I tried remembering the very essential What’s your name? (Na meh be lu kaw leh)‘Thank you’ (Kyei zu tin ba deh) and ‘hello(min ga la ba)’s in Myanmarese.

But now, when I was here, in the land of pagodas, my memory failed miserably, making me feel like a complete idiot. In fact it was a classic situation for an idiotic gypsy. –No map, no knowledge of local language and just 20, 000 kyat(pronounced chyat) –the amount of money that could barely sustain me a couple of days and, thanks to the cyclone that had hit the land just a day earlier, with very few roads now open for me to take. Yes, my journey had begun in a true stellasque style.

Baje, Wishdom Personified(2)

A smile is all it takes to bridge the gap of a hundred miles that lay between 2 hearts, two ages and two cultures..its like that cosmic ray that can light up the darkest corner of the earth .

But a smile also is a veil under which lay secret , untold stories of fear, of sorrow and of feelings too deep to fathom..In such cases a smile creates an aura of an enigma.......


This is what came to my mind as I saw Baje's smiling face . There were stories untold, hidden under that veil of smile and so, with ever passing day my curiosity to know them grew stronger.

Like most Gurkhas, Baje was also paid peanuts for his decade-long service to Her majesty the queen. And so when he returned home post retirement, there was very little cash in his pocket. His monthly pension did not reach him every month and it was back to he hard peasant's life in the mountain, once again. The hardship multiplied when his wife died suddenly. And even as he was overcoming that grief, the elder of his two sons lost a hand in a freak hunting accident . The accident sent the young man over the edge of his wits and he never recovered from that again. He lived in a perpetual stupor, caring for nothing and none.

The younger boystudies in a residential school, away from home.


The house he had been able to built, during his service years, was a good one. It was a 2-stories stone house with 3 spacious rooms. There were 2 words 'Love, Live ' written on he walls, just above the door and there were beautiful creepers growing around he windows.


But it was a house full of hollowness. There were none here with warmth in the heart , nor anyone eager to listen to Baje's stories or share his childlike laughter .

Everyday he would get up before sunrise, regardless of the season or the climate. Then he would cook his meal..a dish of daal-bhat(the concept of breakfast did not exist there) and before 8 he would be in the village nursery where he would be working till midday, when it was time to look after other domestic duties. This included chopping firewood, collecting fodder for cattle, tending to rabbits and ducks in the village community farms. Add to this tilling of the land, sowing seeds, preparing compost and a hundred other odd jobs and what you get is a day where there is barely a minute to laze.


Night, therefore was a welcome relief , but before that he had to finish his dinner, which again could be had only when it was prepared..by himself.


And this is the way life is...12 months ayear. Hard, devoid of rest, and lonely. And yet you find him smiling . He has to fetch for himself every single day , yet he would be happy to be your host, to invite you over his home, to cok a meal for you.

At his age, specially after so many years of service abroad, men think of nothing but living in a cozy home and a life freed of all duties. And yet he would not only happilly carry on his own endless list of duties towards his village, but would happilly offer his services , of course for free, to any visitor like you. He would offer to take you to the mountains, explore the forest, show you the waterfalls, the watermill, the ancient shrines, the crops in the field, pluck flowers for you, and if you are too tired, then he would even offer to carry your bag although he is 74 and you are an able bodied yung person in your early twienties.


His area of work , as I said, is medicinal plants. But he taught me of paper plants and of plants that produce coton-like fibre. He showed me rearing of angora rabbits. He taught of grass that produce powder that folk actors in China used in their make up, to whiten their faces before a performance, of extracting wood that can be burnt like a torch... And of course a hundred myths, legends and folklore.. .

And as if these were not enough, he even found a young man in the village (one of the few who spoke some english) who would be my entertainer, meeting me every evening with his guitar and sing for me.....


And that's my Baje...a grand old, real man....a personification of wisdom..someone I am proud to have known.

Baje, Wishdom Personified(2)

A smile is all it takes to bridge the gap of a hundred miles that lay between 2 hearts, two ages and two cultures..its like that cosmic ray that can light up the darkest corner of the earth .
But a smile also is a veil under which lay secret , untold stories of fear, of sorrow and of feelings too deep to fathom..In such cases a smile creates an aura of an enigma.......

This is what came to my mind as I saw Baje's smiling face . There were stories untold, hidden under that veil of smile and so, with ever passing day my curiosity to know them grew stronger..

Like most Gurkhas, Baje was also paid peanuts for his decade-long service to Her majesty the queen. And so when he returned home post retirement, there was very little cash in his pocket. His monthly pension did not reach him every month and it was back to he hard peasant's life in the mountain, once again.
The hardship multiplied when his wife died suddenly. And even as he was overcoming that grief, the elder of his two sons lost a hand in a freak hunting accident . The accident sent the young man over the edge of his wits and he never recovered from that again. He lived in a perpetual stupor, caring for nothing and none..

The younger boystudies in a residential school, away from home...


The house he had been able to built, during his service years, was a good one. It was a 2-stories stone house with 3 spacious rooms. There were 2 words 'Love, Live ' written on he walls, just above the door and there were beautiful creepers growing around he windows. But it was a house full of hollowness. There were none here with warmth in the heart , nor anyone eager to listen to Baje's stories or share his childlike laughter ..

Everyday he would get up before sunrise, regardless of the season or the climate. Then he would cook his meal..a dish of daal-bhat(the concept of breakfast did not exist there) and before 8 he would be in the village nursery where he would be working till midday, when it was time to look after other domestic duties. This included chopping firewood, collecting fodder for cattle, tending to rabbits and ducks in the village community farms. Add to this tilling of the land, sowing seeds, preparing compost and a hundred other odd jobs and what you get is a day where there is barely a minute to laze. Night, therefore was a welcome relief , but before that he had to finish his dinner, which again could be had only when it was prepared..by himself.

And this is the way life is...12 months ayear. Hard, devoid of rest, and lonely.

And yet you find him smiling . He has to fetch for himself every single day , yet he would be happy to be your host, to invite you over his home, to cok a meal for you.

At his age, specially after so many years of service abroad, men think of nothing but living in a cozy home and a life freed of all duties. And yet he would not only happilly carry on his own endless list of duties towards his village, but would happilly offer his services , of course for free, to any visitor like you.

He would offer to take you to the mountains, explore the forest, show you the waterfalls, the watermill, the ancient shrines, the crops in the field, pluck flowers for you, and if you are too tired, then he would even offer to carry your bag although he is 74 and you are an able bodied yung person in your early twienties..

His area of work , as I said, is medicinal plants. But he taught me of paper plants and of plants that produce coton-like fibre. He showed me rearing of angora rabbits. He taught of grass that produce powder that folk actors in China used in their make up, to whiten their faces before a performance, of extracting wood that can be burnt like a torch... And of course a hundred myths, legends and folklore..

And as if these were not enough, he even found a young man in the village (one of the few who spoke some english) who would be my entertainer, meeting me every evening with his guitar and sing for me.....

And that's my Baje...a grand old, real man....a personification of wisdom..someone I am proud to have known.

Baje: Wisdom personified

He is 74 and lives in a village called Nangi in the hill district of Myagdhi in Nepal.
Like many of his fellow elders, he too is a former Gurkha who once served in the British Army.


My first meeting with him was quite nondescript. I was walking around, trying to see the village where I was to be a volunteer for a fortnight, offering my services towards community development. Along my way I met and was greeted by ever-smiling villagers. He was one of them. Someone had introduced him as Mote, the nursery man.
Like everyone else in that mountain village, he too had a face so full of smiles, you would be tempted to think it never had a reason to be sad or cry. His 74 years of age notwithstanding, the man woke up every day at break of the dawn and cooked ‘daal-bhat’ the only meal of the day over wooden stove in a tiny log hut. At eight in the morning he would be at the village nursery, set up by a non government organization trying to conserve the rare and vanishing Himalayan plants. Here they were growing plants, most of them of high medicinal values and have these planted back in different areas of the mountain. And Mote was the custodian of the nursery.

As a volunteer I could choose my area of contribution and it did not take me long to
Choose the nursery for the simple reason of learning about medicinal plants, something that I always had an interest in. And soon I realized, couldn’t have made a better decision, because I couldn’t have found a better person than Mote to work with. Because he was and continues to be, someone who could make each day of yours a day with a little difference.

However, the first few days though enriching for me, also brought in a little frustration. The reason—Mote wouldn’t, just would not allow me to get my hands ‘dirty’ with cow dung or mud. He would just want me to sit at a safe distance and watch while he did went about the job. So there I was- watching him looking into the germination of the seedlings, filling the plastic bags with soil, planting saplings in them, watering them , covering them with sheet of bamboo and so on….

However, soon I found out his weakness: a great ability of story telling. And soon he was absorbing me in the net of that magical web of stories….. a web I had not experienced since my granny died… Now, here, in this strange mountain village I heard this old man tell me endless stories again…of this village, of his people, of his youth, of his days as a Gurkha, of England, of Malaysia, Hong Kong…the places that he had been to.
Perched on a stone , in turn , I too told him of my childhood, my fascination for people and cultures…..

It was this exchange of stories that gradually started drawing us closer. Soon Mote dropped his resistance and let me come down and give him a hand in the work. And even before I could express my gratefulness, one morning he told me to call him’Baje’ which meant grandfather.

And that moment, right there, with the morning frost still thick all around us, with the wintry chill still in the air he was let me straight into his world and his life and we became related to each other.

That morning I got the grandfather I had never had and had always been longing for.

After this things moved rather rapidly. Under Baje’s supervision I learnt of medicinal plants and how to grow them. And once our working hours were over, Baje would head towards the mountain, into the forest, with me trotting behind. Every few second he would stop, to show me a new plant, a new tree, rare and ancient and tell me about its utility, as well as the legends that encircled it.

Deeper in the forest and we would find tiny shrine-like structures, which were actually tombs of Buddhist lamas. Interestingly, Baje had a story on each of those tombs and thus he would make everything, living or dead, appear significant, enchanting.

Often during these walks and during these long hours of story telling we would burst into laughter. It felt as though we were two children, standing at two corners of life, fascinated with the world around us and thrilled with the idea of being a part of it…………..

To be Continued..

When I met Bravery..2

He was 23, an age when a man lives alone only during the dead hours of night, when sleep comes invading his senses. But this young man was living here by himself. 7 days a week. 12 months an year.

In the high mountains distance is not counted in kilometers, but in the number of steep climbing hours. And it would take at least 7 such hours for him just to find a single person to whom he could say ‘namaste’!

So from sunrise to sundown, the man spent his day as he was…. Alone.

And so went the cycle of seasons…..
In January….when the morning lay safely wrapped in the blanket of cold fog , he woke up alone to brave it …and at night when the whiteness of moonlight at night would blend seamlessly with the deadly white of the snow, he went to bed alone.

And so summer came, rhododendrons bloomed, and young men and women gathered by brooks to celebrate.. but on this hill this young adult , so devoid of company, remained just so…devoid of company

The silence would , however , be broken sometimes. By the chirping of birds. But in this winter, they were rare to sight . And yes there was a herd of yaks…..something that the young man was committed to take care of. The herd belonged to people, living in different villages and the young man was looking after it.


But why did he choose this life? The first reason, as I just mentioned, was to serve his people. The yaks were kept on that hill because it was considered very steep and , according to villagers, safe. The herd would not stray and therefore, be safe from falling prey to leopards and other predators. But another reason is that a small group of Americans were trying to connect that remote part of the world through Internet. They chose this hill which was the highest and decided that it could be a good place for setting up a signal tower(which actually was an antenna tied on top of a tall pine tree). Strange it might sound, but this young man was the only person they could find to guard that tower and take care of it.

Or, in both cases, nobody else could be found . Nobody else was ready to stand the loneliness.

Now, the Internet tower did not need your attention unless a storm gathered. So it was just tending the yaks. In fact even that wasn’t much of a job either as all that he had to do was letting the animals out in morning and letting them at the end of the day. In between these two there was a huge mass of time which flowed as slowly as a huge stone would . You wake up. Wash. Chop firewood. Make a fire. Cook, Eat. Take a nap. And even after that it would seem, time had hardly moved.

When I told this story to a friend on my way back home, he said.. if I were there, I would either go insane , or be a failed poet

Well Gham.. the young man , certainly did not go either way. He was sane, smiling, hospitable, friendly and as if these are not enough, very, very loving. His face lit up when we met, but that was not because he was meeting a girl, but because he was meeting someone he could talk to. And so he went ….cooking, caring, fussing all over the place, all the while maintaining a beautiful shy smile…

So insane he didn’t become. But bad poet? Well once we finished dinner, he took out his guitar….something he described as his lifeline and music started flowing. It was haunting. It was cheerful. It lifted u now among the clouds….next moment it filled you with a sense of solitude too difficult to explain.

But it was only music.. there were no words. For some strange reason he would not sing . Not even half a song. Not even a single line. Maybe he was keeping them up…storing them until the day they would pour out too. Disappointed I sure was , but took it as a reason to be back someday….to hear him singing.. hear him putting his stories in lyrics.

However, he did tell me some of his stories. His stories were simple. Elderly parents. Friends. A village home…far, far down.. far, far away. Memories of years flown far , far away…
He answered my questions. Did he feel lonely? He did. Did not he long for company? He did. Did he not long to wake up and see someone.. just anyone in his hut? He did. Did not he feel like sharing his space with someone? Talking? Holdng hands? Feeling the touch of another warm hand in his hands? Smiling at someone and seeeing that someone smiling back? Shyness ruled, but yes he did

Then why was he still here? Why was he not getting away, running away, go to another place.... egt another life.... get a girlfriend...get married?

The answer was short. Because if he left, there would be no one else to be here. To fill the empty place.

Empty place. Vacuum. A strait of endless, agonizing solitude.
Better that
than letting his people down.

Perhaps this is what called madness. Perhaps this young man was insane after all
Or
Perhaps this is what was heroism.
An act of bravery. Bravery at its purest best.

You could choose your pick. I have chosen mine. I go with the later one.

When I met Bravery 1 (Looking back…..memories of Tibet)

Sun was setting behind Dhaulagiri.

…… a sudden decision
Because a while ego there it was, burning happily up, among the harmless mounds of floating , until the air turned suddenly cold, sending a shiver down my spine.

And almost immediately the air grew heavy-- with the scent of logta, the paper plant and with an impeccable silence.
And also a dash of possibility……….

Walking among a field of tall, dry grass
I suddenly found the going tough. The light became less generous , and there were loose rocks, under the grass bed testing my steps, challenging them with uncertainty. But no matter how trying the going got, go I had to .

Because I was going to have a date. A date with bravery.


It was the beginning of January. And I was wandering around in Mushtang.. the districts that divided Nepal from Tibet. Or binds them together, as the people there feel.

It was cold, as it usually is. It was misty, as it always is. It was peaceful, as one would expect it to be.
I was walking through forest land, following the narrow track taken only by woodcutters and occasionally by traveling traders or ‘ghumanta vyaparis’ as they are called. I was, therefore an oddity ..and yet I didn’t quite feel like one. I felt completely at ease and at home.

My destination was a hill. Isolated. Tall. Quiet. And almost uninhabited ..except for one man. And that man.. that solo dweller on the isolated hill in Upper Mushtang was the one I was going to meet and going to spend the night with. Literally.

Sun or no sun, sunrise or sunset….I had a reason to be euphoric.


To be continued…..

Trust is such a relative word!

It was almost dark when the rickety bus dropped me at Dede-Ranga bus stop in Rajmahal district ( Jharkhand state in eastern India). Despite being rickety, however, the Jharkhand state transport bus had an enormous belly which was filled with men, women of all ages, along with children, chicken, and if my ears were not fooling me, some goats too. And after an hour of bumpy ride, I was carrying a bit of everyone's smell on me.

The problem was not , however, of smelling like a hundred people or even animals. The problem was of finding my way to my destination--a Santhal village called Ranga. Since the DVC (Damodor Valley Corporation - the power giver to dozens of districts of the eastern India) power grid station was just a few miles away, I had expected to see Ranga as a kind of urban village. But now I came to know that not only the village did not have any electricity, but also had no motorable roads.

It was getting dark fast. Standing in that looming darkness, in the middle of nowhere, wondering where was the road to Ranga, I met Sajan.

A student of St Xaviers' college in Patna city , Sajan was coming home on vacation. His home, to my confused delight, turned out to be Ranga village. What more, Sajan also turned out to be a relative of Mrs James-an old lady I was going to visit. She was the distant relative of a girl with whom I went to college once. We had never met, and now I was on a sudden, impulsive trip to visit her and see her village.

Introduction over, Sajan offered to be my guide to Ms James'. And soon I found out the reason: in a few minutes we were walking along the narrow dirt track between paddy fields. In the pitch darkness, it was impossible for me to see where was I going . The darkness increased manifold when it started to pour. Now here here I was-in a remote village with no paved roads, no electricity, and not a single home where people kept awake after dark .

As I walked on, I held Sajan's hand, maybe a little too tight, because he made jokes about it. But I decided to accept Sajan as my guide, quiet literally, at least for the night.

After about an hours' walk we reached Mrs James' hut, only to find it locked--form outside. Now, on top of everything, I had another new problem: there was no place for me to sleep. And I was wet, shivering, cold and hungry.

Surprisingly, Sajan seemed quite cool and said that the lady must have gone to her daughter's village and suggested that we go there too.

His coolness made me a little afraid. I was not sure if he was trying to help me or take advantage of my misery.

But I had made him my guide. And I decided to let him lead me on. I decided to trust this young stranger whom I had met in this rainy night. We had already spent 2 hours together.

So we began again. Once again, we were walking along the dirt tracks, along the paddy fields, now filled with rain water. Once again, I was blind in the darkness, walking holding his hands.

After what seemed an agonizing forever, we reached a hut which Sajan said, would be Mrs James' daughter's house. By then I was so tired, all I wanted was be dry and drop dead, preferably in a bed.

I got it of course. And even more. I was offered home made drink, made of Mahua flowers, followed by black tea, rice, curried chicken . And at the end of all these there was a bed--mercifully with nobody to share with.

Of course I slept like a log. Of course when the morning came, everything seemed quite surreal --my meeting with Sajan, how he guided me from misery to safety and comfort, how he never wanted to know what the hell I was doing in that unknown village or what business did I have in visiting Mrs James--someone whom I had never, ever met before.

 Even when I told him on my own that I was just a crazy traveler who loved doing stupid things like visiting far away villages and being guests of unknown people  and that I had just barely heard of Mrs James, Sajan didn't raise an eyebrow. He just seemed to accept me with all my craziness with amazing readiness.

And yet, even after exchanging our numbers, Sajan never ever called me. He never answered my calls either. A few months after we had met, I heard, he had left college abruptly and had eloped with a village girl.

A few more months later, he had joined the Maoists. The girl, who he had eloped with, returned to the village, saying Sajan had abandoned her.

I don't know if he is still alive.

What I know is that Sajan - now a dreaded Maoist guerrilla, or a misled young man whom everyone would love to mistrust and hate, was my savior, my guide and my trusted friend for one night when I was alone, helpless and had nowhere to go.