The Hearing

Anubhav Rath
Nov 1 · 10 min read
Photo by Dan Meyers on Unsplash

A swelling crowd, shrieking and vehemently squeaking out obscenities, awaited Panditjii as he clambered up to the Nehru Minar, one of the two observation towers of located at the ends of the dam. The distinctive roar of the agitated public reverberated throughout the length of the tower. So powerful was the echo, Pradhan Babu could feel the walls shaking. He couldn’t help noticing Panditjii’s face. Beads of perspiration emanated from forehead, forming intricate culverts across the facial contours to finally drop onto his priced band-gale-ka-coat suit, ruining its crispness. The ever-so-pleasant rose on the pocket, which proudly perched beside the exotic 19th century Parker Gold, today seemed to be engaged in a conscious attempt at sliding in, deliberately sinking inside with each step that Panditjii climbed. Pradhan Babu had not seen Panditjii so tensed, ever. His mounting uneasiness and discomfiture was palpable. He appeared so confident on television show — Bharat Ek Khoj, even in the movie — The Gandhi, he was the most reasonable Congressman. Of course, Pradhan Babu realized that these were all actors playing Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first PM, lovingly honorified by the name — Panditjii. But, considering how events unfolded last night, he wasn’t so sure of what’s real anymore.

A tiny grin appeared on Pradhan Babu’s face as he recalled what transpired last night.

Working late nights wasn’t something he had signed for at Odisha Hydro Power Corporation, when he joined a few years back. Even a pilgrimage to all the four holy places of Hinduism (the Char Dham Yatra) wouldn’t commensurate the sins he has to keep doing to keep the lecherous corruption in the ongoing Lower Suktel project under wraps. But what choice is he left with?

‘Comply with our conditions or be prepared to be transferred out of this station’, was the Power Minister’s clear diction.

Maheswar babu, his mate from their engineering college days, has been repeatedly urging him to come back to Bhubaneswar. But does he have a choice? With his whole family set against moving away from Sambalpur? His elder kid says he would lose his friend circle if they move and, in a threatening demeanour, hints at losing concentration at studies, coping with the new place, new tuitions and so on. The smaller boy, well, he is the king of his class here. He simply loves the attention he gets and doesn’t want to join as a freshman, some school else. Madam also has a well settled group of friends here, with their house parties, hobby groups and her association with the temple nearby. Memories of his bachelor days come flashing through his mind — the unquestioned freedom of going anywhere, anytime. And now, the combined inertia of Pradhan Babu and his family is so huge, that moving an inch seems impossible.

Normally, Pradhan Babu hates it when one phone call from the Secretariat in Bhubaneswar, the state capital, ruins his evening. Covering up for the ill-bred, avaricious monsters is all that he does these days. But last night was meant to be something more. Dark monsoon clouds had engulfed the entire sky. When the office building had its doors squeaking and windows banging against the panes producing a pandemonium, Pradhan Babu realised, all of a sudden, that he was alone in the entire building. His secretary had asked his leave an hour ago praying for his son’s ill-health. Pradhan Babu knew very well that the he was malingering, as he could see the child enjoying himself in his father’s office, appearing nowhere near to illness. Nevertheless, he let the poor chap go.

A thunderous thud of lightning striking the ground somewhere at distance and suddenly the two-storeyed office building was engulfed in darkness from a power blackout. Feeling his way through the room, Pradhan Babu managed to grab a box of matches from the cupboard. He lighted a candle, placing it safely away from the huge scatter of files on his desk. One file burns, and he would be gone back to his village. Chuckling at his own joke, Pradhan Babu tapped his fingers on his desk, waiting for the power backup unit to kick in. The office buildings in the premises were supplied by the same diesel-powered backup unit, that normally restores the supply in less than a minute. What’s taking them so long today, wondered Pradhan Babu.

‘May I come in, Pradhan Babu?’, came a sturdy voice from the doorway.

Kaun hai? (Who’s it?) Come in, please’.

A tall figure stepped into the room, bringing in a sweet smell of freshly plucked red roses but no footsteps that Pradhan Babu was expecting to hear. Drawing out a chair for himself, the figure sat opposite Pradhan Babu’s desk, his face hidden outside the flickering candle’s luminescence. Pradhan Babu cleared his throat.

‘Mr. Pradhan, I am Jawaharlal Nehru’, the figure spoke as he moved his face forward into the candlelit area. Pradhan Babu, watched agape. He wasn’t frightened. He was perplexed. The face wasn’t intimidating. It was concerned and composed. Pradhan Babu was lost in the face, admiring its strength and confidence. ‘I know this is surprising’, continued the figure, jolting Pradhan Babu back to the sensory world, ‘but, I am here in a mission. You must pay attention to all that we discuss’.

‘Wh-what, what??’, uttered the Executive Engineer, as he hypnotically stared at the face. ‘Am I hallucinating, sir? Is this really you, Panditjii?? I know, I must be dreaming. It’s so dark…I must’ve fallen asleep…’

A distant thud of the backup unit…and the fluorescent tube flooded the room with light. Pradhan Babu had to close his eyes for a few moments, to allow his pupils to constrict. When he opened them, he expected to find an empty chair in front of him. Instead what he saw, made him leap out of his own.

Pradhan Babu, this is not a joke. I am Pandit Nehru and I have appeared on the Earth again. With a mission and I have only one day to fulfil it.’ Half-arose, Pradhan Babu, slid back to his cushy chair, embarrassed.

The night stretched to the wee hours of morning, the Power Corporations’ office witnessed a full attendance of its staff, a first in several months. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Scores of office cars and hired vans kept fluttering in and out of the office precinct. The boardroom was filled with half-asleep disheveled officials, some even in their pyjamas. But all listened with eyes wide open, taking notes ardently, as the first PM addressed them. Panditjii had come prepared with a plan. And they had a night to execute it. As the first light of the day crept in through the window of the boardroom, so much tension was built up in the air that the now wide-awake officials were all dripping sweat on to the tabletop even with the AC set at 16 degrees.

* * *

Finally the climb came to an end. Pradhan Babu was shocked at the massive number of people gathered at the foothills of the Hirakud reservoir. There seemed no way a pebble dropped from above the tower could find its way to the ground. Pradhan Babu had no idea they could gather so many involved people, at such a short notice. He would no longer question the credibility of his staff, he mused.

Down, the people were fanatic. As Panditjii appeared atop the tower, it seemed like a wave of agitation spread throughout the mass. The violent roar of the crowd rumbled across the Hirakud valley, surrounded by the mythic twelve hills, creating inharmonious echoes which shook the two hundred feet high tower like a sail trapped in a tornado. Panditjii’s one cursory glance through the mass of people, from left to right, and everything fell silent. It was, as if, every protester was silenced from within, the desire to shout seemed to be curbed, from the inside.

‘How many?’, Panditjii asked, looking towards Pradhan Babu. Shuffling through his papers, he replied, ‘At least 20,000 men and women, Panditjii’.

‘My dear friends’, Panditjii addressed, ‘ I know…I am your culprit. I have failed you all. I know…promises that were made long back haven’t been kept. You have lost your lands, your homes, your Gods and your cattle… You have been deceived. You have been made the scapegoats of our maligned bureaucracy. You all are angry, I know…you all seek justice.

And that’s why I am here’.

A short pause prevailed. The song of a bird, probably perched atop a hillock on the Hirakud reservoir could be heard from a distance. Pradhan Babu could feel the words sinking inside the hearts of the twenty-thousand.

‘Six decades have passed since the day we had started this project, this spiritual yajna, and I still remember the enthusiasm and patronage that you — my people, provided us that day. Together, we embarked on a journey that leapt us forward into a new world, a world of prosperity, a realm of technology and an era of self-sufficiency. We were independent, not just from the Union Jack, but also from the fear inside our hearts, which had prevented us from thinking big. This Hirakud Dam is the testament of our freedom from that fear. It is a bold statement that we made to the world, showing the true power of free will of free people!’

The roar of a twenty-thousand claps followed his words.

Lifting his arms in the air to silence the crowd, Panditjii continued, ‘You all agreed to sacrifice the land of your forefathers, your homes and your fields, for the greater good and I was overjoyed at seeing the strength and determination of my people. Underneath the voluminous Hirakud bay, lies submerged your homes and lands — things that you were once so proud of. You were to be sent off to places unknown, to live with people unknown and still you agreed to cooperate. Together, we dreamt of an advanced India. You agreed on the promises made to you, without a shade of doubt. That night, I had the best sleep of my life. I was so proud of my people. That was the day we truly became free — the day when we shunned all our insecurities and flew forwarD to reach for the light at the end of the path. That was the day that I promised myself that, I would never let this sacrifice go in vain. I shall ensure that my people reap benefits manifold from this sacred institution to which they’ve given away their existence. That was the d...’

A stone zoomed its way somewhere from down below, came up to reach Panditjii, rose to his eye level…and Clank!, it dropped down as if it hit a metal sheet inches away from the eyes.

‘Lies, Lies, Lies….All Lies’, shouted one from below.

‘Yes, yes…All Lies’, followed a monstrous roar and a chant, ‘Lies, lies…All lies!’

‘What do you understand Panditjii? All I could possibly buy was a hand length of cotton dhoti for the 60 rupees I received…that was the value of 20 acres of my land. You know what I did with those 60 rupees, Panditjii? I went up there, right where you stand now and, and I tossed away it as far as I could….May the Hirakud demon gobble it up, just like everything else that once was mine’, squeaked a tear-soaked voice from below.

‘But, my people, didn’t you complain?’, asked a grieved Panditjii.

‘Complain!? Ha ha! Petitions, strikes, elections, demonstrations, protests, prayers...what not, Nehru Ji. But we have been so non-existential….Ten thousand families didn’t exist…at least, not in your papers’, shrieked a brave soul from the valley.

An heart-wrenching silence spread across the valley. All of a sudden, hushed voices could be heard coming from the valley below.

A tiny droplet of tear had emerged from the corner of Panditjii’s left eye…as it gradually fell down…it grew wider, broader, heavier, swelling with each inch that it fell…until the last few tens of feet of the tower, of it had swollen into a gigantic drop. A massive pond of grief and the people underneath became helter-skelter.

‘Make way, give way!’, shouts one. ‘No, no…This is our Panditjii’s ashru-amrut (the elixir of immortality in the form of tears)save it from the Hirakud…save it from the industries that leech god knows what into the river below…Let it not get polluted!’, shouted another.

‘Build an embankment, build a men-dam’, urges someone.

One-by-one, hand-over-hands…the people formed a chain…an embankment of men…sacrificing themselves to protect the purity of the tears…twenty thousand men obliterated into oblivion…saving the Hirakud from the tears and the tears from the Hirakud…They became Nehru’s men…

* * *

They say, the officials never heard of any complaints after that. Everything that was lost somehow was regained. Everyone was granted justice. Yet nothing seemed to have changed.

‘Justice was met that day. At Nehru Minar, a hearing was there’, no one denies this. But — when, how, who? No one knows.

Even to this day, whenever the monsoons bring rains and ominous clouds in the evenings, while Pradhan Babu works late, he has a dejá vu. A voice across the corridor, the smell of freshly plucked red roses and a single teardrop. Then a moment later, he shakes it off and mutters aloud, ‘Ahh… I’m getting old.’


Background: More than a hundred thousand people were displaced from their homes due to the construction project of India’s first multi-purpose hydroelectric power dam, the majestic Hirakud Dam in my home state, Odisha. At its ground-breaking ceremony on the12th April 1948, the then Prime Minister of India — Jawaharlal Nehru christened dams as ‘Temples of Modern India’. But, even after seven decades, descendants of the displaced families were still yearning for appropriate compensation for their lands and homes.

A recent mandate from the government to settle all such compensation claims, appeared in the news here. Heart-breaking accounts of desperate struggles to receive just compensation and rehabilitation assistance have been a regular feature in local newspapers over these decades. This work of fiction is motivated by and dedicated to those thousands of families.

Anubhav Rath

Written by

Researcher. Dreamer. Infrequent Writer.

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