On the highway to the waterfall
Time continued to stand still, not moving, not yielding to the demands of modernity.
I’ve traveled along Indian highways many times.
I’ve driven along Indian highways many times and have often stopped at villages or in the countryside. No one should enter a village assuming the villagers are simple peasants who live in the distant past and dream of the Manusmriti.
Villagers are not simpletons
Thanks to modern technology, most people now connect with the world, eagerly consuming the rubbish on WhatsApp and other social media, much like their better-educated urban counterparts. They stay informed about current politics, know how to demand their rights, and do so effectively. Some of them are wicked people, forming groups like the infamous ‘Gau Rakshak’ groups that target Muslims. I will not explore that subject further, or else I will launch into a tirade.
There are a few occasions when the entire trip takes you back in time. In my previous post, I wrote about the village at Chunar, and I wrote about how time seemed frozen in the past.
The waterfall!
After we left Chunar, my driver asked me if I wished to visit a waterfall, which we did. I am ashamed to write that I did not ask him the name of the waterfall, and despite learning that there are between three and five waterfalls near Varanasi, I have not bothered to investigate them further.
However, if you go back to my old trip to Khajuraho, I mentioned my crazy guide who spoke to me about the five sacred lands–Ayodhya, Varanasi, Chitrakoot, Khajuraho, and Braj. I have traveled to all five, but don’t have photos of Ayodhya. In the next few years, when I drive to all five towns, I will also visit the rivers and waterfalls.
At the village: Cogitations
In the meantime, I wish to make a few observations of the village I stopped at to explore for a few moments. Buffaloes sat–lay–on the red, muddy soil, while the factory belched black smoke in the background. I didn’t see any villagers in the vicinity, and I wondered if they were working in the fields or having an afternoon nap. The buffaloes seemed content with their lives, but I was wary of disturbing their repose. I had no intention of running down the muddy, broken path to my vehicle, with an angry buffalo following close behind.
Buffaloes may chew the cud, but when roused, cattle can send you flying in the air, causing people to land with a bump and break a few bones. Most Indians are ungainly, and despite our bravado, we crash-land like a sack of potatoes when a cow tosses us into the air. I’ve seen many social media videos, some of which–when I see cows tossing politicians, give me much satisfaction.
The factory, with its billowing black smoke in the background, stood in stark contrast with the peaceful rural scene in the foreground. On the one hand, I saw the march of technology–and pollution–in the factory and, on the other, a continuation of old traditional ways of living. The factory represented capitalism and exploitation, while the rural scene depicted a more social form of existence. I saw pollution contrasted with sustainable living, frenetic energy contrasted with calm.
Maybe it was my imagination running wild, but if you just go to a location and take photographs like a blind person, you gain nothing. I’ve seen many people who go to a scenic spot, take a few selfies, and leave—the end.
Bang.
The end.
We continued driving.
We drove along the pencil-thin, cracked road, giving way to the local folk driving on their motorcycles or on their bullock carts. Bullock carts are becoming increasingly rare.
I remember taking a course on rural transportation in college, and I regret not having specialized in it. I would have failed as a transportation expert, but not for lack of expertise. I detest lazy, corrupt bums and may have done a few terrible things to the atrocious people we have in India. Do read my rant on Medium!
My professor was in love with the design of the suspension of bullock carts and repeated (too often) that the design was perfect for Indian village roads. Years later, I read a book by a British author on why the English failed to create proper ships and boats to sail along the Indus River. They insisted that their modern, deep-sea vessels were much better than the flat-bottomed barges the local people used, whereas the local designs suited the river basin better. The English incurred a significant financial losses because of their arrogance and insistence on transporting technology to an environment that required only slight modifications to the designs.
Blind arrogance causes more damage than we realise.
We continued our drive, stopping by the mustard fields. While preparing images for this post, I resisted the temptation to remove the wires crossing the tree. The wires seemed to suit the hazy sky.
And so we drove on, conversing about the terrible roads and other matters that occupied us equally humans. And why not? Why drive in silence when a companionable chat helps pass the time?