Day 5: What happens when no one trusts you at all?
*This is a story from a Pad Yatra (walking journey) I took with 6 friends from Project Potential in rural Bihar back in April.
We left Joginder’s (a local farmer) house around 5 pm, after an hour of chai, freshly picked and roasted corn from his field, and storytelling; our collective emotion was telling us that it was time to walk more and get to the next village by sunset, so we set out. Little did we know, however, that after 5 days of walking over 100 kilometers, experiencing a sense of abundance like never before amongst strangers who fed, housed, and treated us as their own, our yatra was coming to an end.
As we reached the main road, we were stopped by three guys on a bike, all of them in their early twenties. The first guy, with a shaved head, a thin moustache, a bright red t-shirt and a healthy paunch asked, through a mouth of paan, “what are you people doing here?” We were in the midst of collectively deciding our next move, so we simply told him “we’re on a pad yatra,” without paying much attention.
We moved ahead when we heard a bike creeping up on us from behind. Red shirt again. This time more impatient, his eyebrows slanting down like two caterpillars looking to attack each other. Pan ruminating in his mouth, he demanded, “we need more information…what’s a pad yatra?” Before we could even start explaining, a second bike arrived, and then a third. Within 3 minutes, at least 50 people showed up. It was like a swarm of ants, circling and entrapping us.
Discernible “whats” and “whos” turned into an inscrutable roar. If my ears were confused, my nose was not; waves of liquor and alcohol, especially emanating from a round man in a long, white kurta (let’s call him Rajesh).
Rajesh, we would come to know, is the brother of the candidate for Mukhiya, or village mayor. His job is to give people liquor and stir up controversies to motivate the vote bank.
If being belligerent and picking fights were a sport, then Rajesh would be at least a state champion. He wasted no time once he arrived in stirring up controversy. Hardly able to stand, he waddled from side to side, magically projecting himself forward at the same time with the dexterity of a penguin. He made a beeline for Rahul, who was already cornered by the railing of the bridge.
“How dare you enter this village without my permission? Show me your ID.”
Remember, he has no formal authority to demand anything.
Rahul, patiently: “We’re on a pad yatra, without any cell phones, money, ID, or anything else. We’re all from the same organiza…”
Rajesh, repeating himself: “How dare you enter this village without my permission? I’ll call the bada babu (local police chief) and have you arrested. Don’t you know me? I’m the boss of this village.”
Rahul, losing his patience: “And even if I did know you, then so what?”
The tension rose; you know how when you let a yoyo hang all the way down and then if you flick the yoyo into the air, then it hangs before coming down hard? The yoyo was Rajesh’s hand, trying to find Rahul’s face. On the third try, he connected.
What to do? Pull him out and simple proximity might escalate the situation; leave him there, and who knows what they might do. We pulled him out of there. But then what? We continued to be swarmed; one step to the right, and 20 people are there to meet you. One step back to the left and 30 more people are there to meet you.
We called out to the new friends we had just shared food and chai with, but they looked back as if they didn’t know us; it felt as if we were calling out for help from under water while drowning, unable to make our voices loud enough to be heard. Or was it that no one was willing to listen?
In Hindi, the verb sunana means both to hear and to listen, which has always frustrated me, but it felt apt in this situation, where we were neither heard, nor listened to.
The situation remained chaotic, and we couldn’t coordinate on what to do as a team, as we were scattered. But somehow we seemed to have this sixth-sense interconnectivity, through which we each figured out that we needed to divide the larger crowed into smaller groups in order to get our story across.
So I took one group off the bridge, including the two girls and two of the boys as well, toward a field; Abodh took another crowd off to another side of the bridge; and Ganesh took another over to a different part of the bridge.
Again, imagine you’re in a field, it’s dark, and you’re surrounded by 50+ men, many of whom are inebriated, and many of whom believe that you are “bad” — otherwise why would everyone be so worked up? How do you convince them that you aren’t “bad?” How do you get them to not only hear, but also to listen?
With the same patience it takes to do a Pad Yatra in the first place; every word like each step on the Yatra, carefully planted and imbued with meaning. There’s an aliveness to the danger — what you say and how you say it is of real consequence, unlike much of the noise that permeates our digital consciousness today. There’s also a presence of body and mind required that echoes what I had been seeking to achieve throughout the entire Yatra. And finally, there’s love; in such moments, your voice will tremble and crack like sand castle in an earthquake if you are unable to love those in front of you in that specific moment.
—
To cut a long story short, Ganesh had a distant uncle in that village, so he was called in. We walked to his house, with the entire crowd following along with us; they joked with us as if we hadn’t just been traumatized and abused: “we’ve joined your pad Yatra.”
But the friendship would only last so long; Rajesh and Ganesh’s uncle had a history that hadn’t ended with a peace treaty. So outside his house, tensions rose. In response, Ganesh’s uncle called the other candidate for Mukhiya in. He showed up with his own crew of strong men and supporters as well. So, now, while we sat inside the house, we could hear insults, swears, and some physical altercation between the two parties.
At one point, in the midst of their fight, someone broke open one of the doors to the house, creating a large banging noise. We were told to run up onto the roof of the house and stay there. I tried comforting a few of my friends, who were reeling with stress, that it would be okay. But a local boy, who had joined us on the roof, continued to tell us stories about the local goons and the acts of violence they commit and the weapons they have — essentially countering the logic of every point I made. He was there, like a comic relief character, who continually says the wrong thing that makes everyone more uncomfortable.
We came downstairs when the local police chief arrived. He called us out to the veranda of the house, where we sat on a charpoy in front of the police. Seeing many of the same people who has caused us problems earlier, including one person who had hit Rahul, I suggested that we discuss what happened inside to avoid future retribution. But he insisted that we do it in front of the community so that people could react to what we were saying. So we explained what had happened, including the fact that we wanted to file a report against Rajesh. The police chief took the whole incident lightly and said very little the whole time before eventually leaving. People say that he’s connected with Rajesh.
So we didn’t feel safe staying there for the night and decided to leave for our friend’s house, roughly 50 km away. But by that time (11 pm or so), we couldn’t get a car; only a ‘magic’ which is basically a glorified 4 wheel auto rickshaw.
On the way back, we were quite sure that we were being trailed by two of Rajesh’s men on motorcycles — according to the driver, at least. So he shut off his lights and then turned around and took a different route. I’m writing this, which means we arrived. I never felt more grateful to be safe and sound.
