Into a timeless zone
By Gollapudi Srinivasa Rao
As a journalist working in the naxal affected district, I always focused on covering new stories related to it. Any activity assumes importance and every issue is looked at from the naxal angle.
Young, able bodied and creative I am, and so there is the penchant for always looking for something new to write or always wanted to explore the unexplored places in the district that has 12,846 square kilometres.
During the last Assembly elections, I attended an official press conference where the election authorities handed out a list of villages that are classified as sensitive, hyper sensitive and so on. It also had a coloumn that read `inaccessible.’ Immediately, I decided to visit one or two of six listed there.
Amidst busy electioneering and visits of star campaigners, one day I set out to a hamlet called Chowledu with my photographer M Murali on his two-wheeler. When I gathered little information on how to reach, people told me vaguely that it would be over hundred kilometers but were not sure of exact location of the habitation.
After travelling for ninety kilometers towards Eturunagaram, we took a right turn and travelled another 20 kilometers into thick woods and reached Katapur, reasonably a big village. So, we waited for a few minutes on the main road to ask any passerby about the road we should take to reach Katapur, only to be very sure.
After riding for nearly ten kilomteres, our two-wheeler was punctured ditching our hopes of embarking on adventure. There is no help from any quarter, no water and nothing in sight. On a great stretch of slim road that pierced through thick jungles, we both stood there helpless. My photographer was very confident that an occasional road user would help us fix the problem and he was right. An auto driver carrying goods offered to give lift back to Tadvai. While I sat lonely in tense, my photographer took out the wheel and sped with him to get it repaired. Every second passed like a long day. After about an hour, my photographer came back on another two-heeler. “It was over within ten minutes, but I have been waiting for lift,” he told me. The water bottles we were carrying were emptied even before we reached half way. We planned to fill them up at a village ahead.
We were thrilled at having reached Katapur after passing through the jungles. We contacted our friend Saraiah, a local vernacular reporter who promised to go along with us.
After an hour of ride and passing two more small habitations, we finally arrived at Kousettivai, our last habitation en route.
Saraiah who said he had visited the Chowledu a few months back with the elections officials said, we should all proceed by the traces of bullock cart track. I suddenly got tense. There are several cart tracks. Some used by surrounding villagers who go into forest for timber. Saraiah and his friend led the way on a bike while I and my photographer followed them on another. It was already afternoon when we started our journey into godforsaken land.
Having ventured into forests to cover naxal encounters, I knew that, it will become dark too early in the forest. My worry is to start our return journey around 4 pm.
After riding for a few furlongs, we had to get down our vehicles and carry the two-wheelers virtually. Crossing the streams, trekking long gravel paths, climbing steep hillocks, we somehow made our way still. Several times, we stopped, gasped for breathe, craved for water but in vain. We stood still and struggled to regain our balance.
Passing by gigantic cave like structures, mammoth boulders covered with strong roots like a stone held in a big fist we just wondered at the ageless formations. We seemed very tiny and weak before the splendor of nature. The sky neighbouring trees, wild environs and the grave silence and unknown fear sent a chill in our spines. For a while, I lost all my senses. I was only worrying how to get back. My sole concern at that moment was how to get back. For some time, I was also wondering what if a herd of wild boars attacked and killed us all the four. How would our death news be known to the world? What if a python attacked us? I was just imagining the agonizing moments one experiences just before death and what happens after.
Perhaps, my other companions too were feeling the same and we were all virtually sprinting in the forest unconsciously and silently. We walked and walked as if journeying towards end of the earth. Our walk appeared very mad and never ending. For about two hours, we were just walking. Our friend Saraiah said the habitation would be eight kilometers deep inside the forest from Kousettivai.
At last at about 4 pm, we saw the huts. It was the time, I actually planned to leave from that spot. Now I forgot all that.
For a second, the scene that appeared before our eyes unveiled an altogether a spectacular sight. The earth is like a high raised dais cut around by a deep ravine into which a spring flowed from atop a hill. A range of verdant hills surrounded the habitation where only five people live with their half a dozen kids. A tribal woman Neela Laxmi, her two sons Bikshapathi and Laxman live with their wives and kids.
Tribal youth, Neela Bikshapathi was not surprised by our entry into his domain. He took us to be those election officials who make several visits during the elections once in five years only to convince them to migrate to nearby village.
He just then moved aside a wooden log kept across a thatched hut shanty. Suddenly a hundred or more lovely calves in white and brown colours surged out in all directions. We were startled at the gush of animals while my delighted photographer Murali at once got into action. He forgot everything and went on clicking the stunning surroundings. “It is time they join their mothers who return from grazing in the wild. They feed their off springs,” Bikshapathi told us.
I briskly walked all over. There stood three huge trees. Two heavily fruit laden mango trees and one widely spread tamarind tree. They are out of place there. “The three plants were gifted to us by ITDA project officer Sharma twenty five years ago,” tribal youth Laxman said.
The gesture of the officer really amazed me beyond description. During the last 40 years, efforts were made to shift this tribal family to nearby villages and during one such trial, one officer took along with him a small gift. The gift is now helping them survive in the wild. The fruits fetch little money, which is big for these innocent tribals who once in a while venture out on bullock cart to buy salt, oil and turmeric.
Ends/
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