Koraput in 1955-57 was a modest town; its commercial activity
was confined to one small lane with tiny shop cum residences on either side.
Commercial activity was more in the middle part of the lane. A modest high
school of the state government was at the end of the lane. The imposing Circuit
House at a little distance from the school always remained a source of
curiosity to many boys and girls studying in the school. The street between the
Treasury and the junction at which one turned left towards the Collectorate and
the Residence of the Collector looked clean and wide with healthy Deodars and
Silver Oaks on either side.
The town was seized with great excitement when the
220 volt Electric Transmission Towers were erected for evacuating hydel power
from the Power Station at Machkund. The Towers were tall massive structures of
steel that overawed the humble townsmen not used to electricity. The beautiful
and spacious Collector's Bungalow, picturesquely seated on a hillock, was
electrified when we were the occupants of the house. As an inquisitive boy of
about thirteen, I enjoyed the fixing of sleek wood plates on the walls and then
watched how the electric wires were made to travel on the wooden base. The
switch boards were large with many switches and plug sockets, and were in tune
with the greatness of the District Officer.
Attending the school involved a
long walk and soon I made friends during the journey. My class had only sixteen
students and girls constituted perhaps forty percent. Saliha was one of the
sixteen. He was kind, unassuming and smiling. Both of us were friends. A cruel happening suddenly shook me. Saliha lost his father. He was perhaps
the lone Muslim student in our class. Following the tragedy, Saliha remained
absent from the school for some days. A few days after the demise of his
father, we were playing in the school field during the "Games" period
when I looked towards the Transmission Tower that had been erected a few metres
away from the school compound. I was not aware about a small graveyard just
close to the tower. I noticed a familiar face in the midst of a small crowd of
men attending to a fresh grave. It was Saliha, my friend, plaintively looking
at us playing. He was too young to suffer the loss of his father. I was
inconsolable when I saw he was wiping his tears still looking at me. He joined
us in the class after a few days.
I left Koraput when my father was transferred
to Bhubaneswar in 1957. Saliha and I lost contact till I found him again, maybe
after three decades. He had joined the Department of Posts and was in
Bhubaneswar. We met again. His eyes retained the same innocence and face wore
the same endearing smile. (January 24, 2014)
*******
No comments:
Post a Comment