It was a whopping six hours long car ride from Kolkata to Chirakuthi ashram in Belpahari. On entering the ashram premises, I spotted a nylon mesh swing hanging from a Lokhhitaru tree and pink hibiscuses peeping from the gaps framed by the branches of different plants. I carved my way through a crowd of colourfully dressed villagers to bundle our belongings inside a three-roomed (two bedrooms and the office) hut. While rinsing my daughter's hands from the tap water in the washroom, I heard the bustle outside grow louder and couldn't wait to be a part of the bonhomie. The villagers who had assembled for the community meal settled down on the clean, open corridor that ran along the front of the hut connecting its rooms. Lunch items - rice, dal, vegetable, chicken curry and chutney - were scooped out of large steel buckets and served on sal-leaf plates. The first batch comprised of children only, the smallest of them had their mothers hunched behind to help them erect miniature hillocks of rice that could easily slip into their tiny mouths. The meal would be followed by the distribution of clothes collected from many generous people in Kolkata, inspected to ensure there were no tears or stains, packed in large cardboard boxes and bags, and crammed inside the boots and backseats of the cars which brought us and the other volunteers from the city.
My daughter Nirjhorini found immense delight in the swing and
wrangled with a village-boy to be the sole occupier of it. Not to be daunted,
the little boy, named Shibesh, stuck to his ploys of dethroning her and finally when he got a
chance, he established his proprietary over the swing by pulling it up and
coiling it around the branch of Lokhhitaru, out of reach of my daughter. I consoled her by
taking her out for a walk, promising she would get another turn at the swing before
we set out for our return journey to Kolkata.
The narrow, red-earth road winded past similar looking mud
huts, skirted round dense clumps of trees and branched to explore the meadows.
I noticed the village lacked water bodies although they were aplenty in
other parts of Bengal.
The ashram, which is engaged in empowering the impoverished Shabar tribe populating this region, consists of a couple of longish huts with thatched roofs, a small, cemented, rectangular pool for the ducks, two tinier pools – created out of tarpaulin covered ditches - for cultivating Azolla, and several flowering shrubs. Founded and managed by Swapan Maharaj, its activities include imparting education along with
nutritious Tiffins to around a hundred children (from four to fourteen years of
age), providing dry food to ten poor families, distributing garments to the
villagers during Durga Puja, arranging medical camps, and training the youth to
attain a means of livelihood so they emerge victorious in the ultimate fight
against the scourges of hunger, disease, ignorance and alcoholism plaguing their families.
To achieve this objective, the ashram has started sewing lessons for girls and
supported some in completing their nursing training; enrolled several teenage
girls and boys in CIPET(Center Institute of Plastic Engineering and
Technology), involved the women in making jams, jellies and pickles under 'PHAL
UDYOG' department and is growing a fruit orchard to create more job
opportunities for the villagers. It has bought a few cows and plans to build a
large cowshed to address the problem of malnutrition among the locals and also
to facilitate some of their employment. I am humbled to be one of the (several)
contributors to this noble endeavour undertaken by the monk Swapan Maharaj, who
formerly belonged to the Ramakrishna Math. I am also inspired by my mother, who, despite her ailments, had toiled relentlessly to convince the children to embark on the path of education and encouraged their mothers to attend the adult literacy classes. She has also been instrumental in developing their sewing skills.
We reached an open air school, trailing the sun baked
road and traversed a grass less expanse, at times concealed by the shades of towering
trees. On returning to the ashram,
Nirjhorini dashed to the swing though another little girl in a bright yellow
and red frock was also trotting towards it. She soared high, with her eyes to
the clear skies, occasionally rocked by my mother, sometimes even by Shibesh and finally she vacated the
swing for the little girl. I am indebted to Mrs Monica Sengupta, a tireless soul
dedicated towards empowering the downtrodden though this ashram and many non-profit
organizations, for taking the initiative to arrange the trip to Belpahari,
which granted me an opportunity to experience the upheaval of this often
difficult voyage to freedom from deprivation.
