The world suddenly is so ruthless. It always was, but now,
increasingly, devastations are becoming rule of the day. Flood, earthquakes,
accidents, terror attacks – the daily staple of all news agencies, is enough to
fill the mind with horror. Inadvertently I seek recluse in the peace of our
childhood and adolescent days when the world at least appeared more livable.
The place where you spend your childhood probably has the
most lasting impression on your personality. Gomia – the place where I have
spent just sixteen years of my life holds a special place in my memory. It is a
place perhaps unique on the map and a place that has come a long way. But its journey across time is
a story for some other times; to my mind it still remains that intriguing
little township that I had left behind in the late 1990s, apparently dormant,
but with a strong positive energy. It held variety not just topographically but
also linguistically. In fact, it won’t be an exaggeration to call it a
microcosmic representation of India. Located in the Giridih district of Bihar, and
later in the Bokaro district of Jharkhand, after the state was born, it is
nestled between two rivulets, surrounded by a range of hillocks with a rich
diversity of flora and fauna. A part of the Chhotanagpur plateau, Gomia is well
endowed in terms of topographic and natural diversity. Culturally, it had a
vibrant and thriving community comprising of representatives of almost all the
states of the country. So probably we grew up in a climate of cultural
amalgamation and not alienation. This I think had a lasting effect on our
psyche, which is why Gomians in any part of the world can instantly relate to
each other, so what if they had never even met there!
The point of unity for the township was the factory – the
ICI Explosives Limited, initially an Indo-British joint enterprise, called IEL
or the Indian Explosives Limited, established around 1956. The township had grown
around it and strangely, the factory had a very authoritative presence in the
everyday life of this community. It seemed to regulate every movement of the
residents there. The timely sirens emanating from the factory, signifying the
change in the shift of the factory employees, peculiarly came to symbolize the
schedule of an everyday life in Gomia. It marked the beginning and ending hours
of the school in the day, time for children to go out to play in the
afternoon, time for dinner and time to bed at night and time to wake up early in the
morning. Our parents would tell us to wait for the afternoon siren of five o’clock
before we rushed out to play. When the 12 noon siren was blown, the women would
gear up for the family lunch as it meant lunch break for their office going
husbands who generally returned home for a meal and a short siesta. By 1:30,
the warning signal reverberated in the airs of the township, asking those
employees to rejoin their office by 2pm. The 1:30 signal also signified
homecoming for the school children as the school got over by 1:15.
The school was another interesting feature of that society. Continuously
crisscrossing its path with the inhabitants on a daily basis, but lacking in
the infrastructural advantages of the urban ones, the school was able to
inculcate in its students a hunger for success. Success, not exactly in the
material sense of the world; but albeit as a drive to make it well in the
world. With a sprawling campus in the folds of nature, the school had the
amenities of modern education – library, laboratories, a big playground, pure
drinking water, proper toilet facilities, a cheap store cum book shop, etc,
etc. yet in an indescribable manner, to me, it seemed to exist in vacuum, not
in continuum with the rest of the world. I still find it an enigma as to how
could so many of us from such a remote locality could comfortably grab a place
the real world of cut throat competition and cutting edge dynamism.
Gomia, interestingly, believed in the singularity of
existence – which is why there was a single housing estate, a single hospital,
one English medium school, one club with its pool and badminton court, one
recreational centre and one rifle shooting club too. Oh yes, there was also one
guesthouse, later very popular among the student community, but that will be
something to talk about in another time and another blog. Well this point of
singularity forced the small population of this town to coexist and there
emerged an interesting medley of divergent cultures. Religion had its place too
– a Shiva temple, a church, a masjid and a gurudwara – all had their place
of pride in the community. A pride which is rare in this world – a pride of
peaceful co-existence.
It was a world remote in the true sense of the word. The rest
of the world did not have much impact on that quaint little township of the
Chhotanagpur plateau though winds of change had slowly started gaining motion
by the time we left that place, a couple of years before the change of the millennium. Actually, there was a tenuous connection with the world outside – constantly its young population kept migrating outwards in search of greener
pastures and kept revisiting at least as long as their parents' stayed there. Ironically, it was not a place where we had ever dreamt of making a career, yet
it is a place almost sacred in most of our hearts. Probably nostalgia, a sense
of the impossibility of return and truant memory has invested that place with a
good amount of utopian quality as reflected in my writing here. Yet in today’s extremely
fragmented and disillusioned world, it seems to be the only recluse for my
perturbed heart and mind; even if to others it appears to be a myth created out
of my overworked, nostalgic brain.
