Raniganj basically a coal miner’s
town in Bardhaman district of West Bengal holds a special place in my mind. It
is situated on the banks of the Damodar River and because of its close
proximity to the city of Asansol (my birthplace) it now comes under the Asansol
Municipal Corporation. Couple of centuries back, Raniganj was merely a thick
forest area rather infamous for its tribal dacoits and robbers. Infact incidents
of armed looters and plunderers attacking homes continued as recently as about
1960’s. Raniganj became famous for its coal during the British era and therefore
way back in 1855 they commissioned the rail track from Howrah to Raniganj under
East India Railway. Today all the coal under the town has been extracted and it
is said that the town rests on stowed sand. Of late the town has also become a
medical hub of the region with several doctors and hospitals opening shop.
The coal mining business
attracted various people into the area. The buccaneers from the Rajasthani,
Punjabi, Bihari and Gujrati communities got into various aspects of the
business from mine ownership, coal production, manpower supply, coal handling
and transportation. The entire region was rich in coal deposits and it wasn’t
long before these buccaneers became rich too. The labour force consisted of the
tribal population from Bengal, Bihar and Jharkhand who ended up being exploited.
Today the town with a population of above 1.2 lakhs (2011 census) has become a
weird synthesis of the poor tribal who are the native sons of the soil, the white
collared job oriented typical Bengalis and the rich businessmen Hindi speaking
non-Bengalis.
Raniganj does hold a special
place in my mind. My Ma belonged to the town, and my mama’s still continue to
live there. As a kid, the only holiday vacation that I knew of were the annual trips
to Raniganj. We always went to Raniganj like it was a pilgrimage. The intimacies
with the family, the place and the journeys have created such embossed
impressions on my mind that it continues to remain a major point of reference.
My thoughts return to the place repeatedly. If I am travelling to West Bengal,
I cannot keep myself away from Raniganj. My mind is rooted in Raniganj. While
life knows no roots absolutely, the mind on the other hand is hell bent upon
creating roots for itself. The mind is a strange creation. Its existence is
hypothetical and its content is mostly based on experiences in life. Nostalgia
is a creation of the mind. There is a feeling of comfort and security in
nostalgia and therefore we chose to remember it fondly. In the rigmarole and
strains of living, nostalgia materializes like a whiff of some favorite aroma
mixed up in the dense fog. It appears suddenly with some memory, some face,
some phone call and you wonder where it concealed itself all the while.
Whether we travelled from Margao
or from Chennai, the journey always meant more than 24 hours in the train. One
of my mama’s would travel with us both sides because my Babuji could never get
the required leave from his office, or maybe he chose not to. From Margao it
meant spending 2 or 3 nights journeying because the distance was longer and we
had to change trains twice. Later on from Chennai we had to change train only
once. We always travelled by second class which initially had hard metal seats.
We usually went for a month’s duration and the luggage those days were huge
iron trunks which were heavy and the equally big bedrolls. The luggage required
several porters to handle them. Since we were four of us and later on after
Biki was born five, the bedrolls were unrolled on the seat where all of us
could sit, play or sleep. Food was home packed and a water jar accompanied us.
During summer, the water was often rationed and if the train was delayed then
my mama used to run to the water taps at the station to fill up the jar. Eating
food from the stations was prohibited for us kids. So was accepting food
offered by strangers. We were also never allowed to talk to fellow passengers
fearing that we would step out of the train with them. Walking towards the door
wasn’t permitted and either my Ma or mama accompanied us to the toilet. We
carried story books with us to read and time passed by easily watching the
scene through the window. Unfortunately the trains those days were steam
engines which used to smoke a lot and all of us had our face blackened because
of the coal dust. The first bath after the train journey was always rigorous. Tickets
those days were thick rectangular 2 inches by 1 inch pieces of cardboard with
punched in details like name, places, date and train and they had to be
preserved very carefully. Exchanging seats with fellow passengers to bring all
of us together was a famous activity of cajoling either the other passengers or
the ticket checker. After reaching the destination, haggling with the taxi
drivers who would take us home was yet another source of entertainment. I learnt
a great deal about travelling and being alert right from those days. For
instance, in the night somebody has to remain awake to watch over the luggage,
footwear and also the items which passengers who are getting down carry with
them at various stations.
Raniganj was the kingdom of my
Didama, my lovely grandmother. Being her eldest grandchild, I ruled her heart
and all my desires were treated like commands. I was pampered silly by her to
the extent that my Mashi (Ma’s sister) used to make it a point to even it out
with her own style of teasing and scolding. But if I started howling which I
often did them my Didama used to come to my rescue. When I used to be taken to
the market place, toys and street food only had to be pointed out by me and my
Didama used to see to it that it was bought. My demands were unreasonable which
I realise now, but when my Dadu (grandfather) as well as my mamas used to argue
with her to restrict me, they never won. I remember vividly demanding and
wailing for a toy train with rails, which after purchase didn’t even last to be
taken back to Margao. Once later, it was about a movie to which my Ma and Mashi
were going and I created such a big ruckus to be taken along. They had to give
in. Didama used to tell me wonderful stories of demons and kings and princes
and princesses. There was also a book of folk stories called ‘Thakumar Jhuli’
from where she used to read out loud. Very often when I used to fall sick, and
it was always my Didama who used to nurse me and look after my needs. Watching
her in the kitchen was also a favorite past time. She lit the coal Oonan (stove
which used coal as fuel) right in the morning, cut vegetables, fish, cooked and
entertained me. Those few days were the height of my mischievousness and I always
ignored my Ma while at Raniganj. She used to threaten me saying that once we
get back to Margao she would straighten me, but who cared! Those 3 weeks
durations were like a dream where I lived the life of a prince in an otherwise
depressing childhood.
My Didama’s kingdom was a rented
house, whose owner was Banarasi Lal Modi. It was a huge ground plus one floor bungalow
and the owner himself used to occupy the upper floor. The entire space on the
lower floor was rented out. A number of families occupied it amongst whom were
my Dadu and Didama. The property was called Banarasi Oil Mill because it included
a mustard oil producing mill. Shri Banarasi Lal Modi was a Marwari buccaneer
who made his wealth from the coal trade. He was in the business of coal
handling using labour. For whatever reasons his oil mill business couldn’t
click but the name of the property stuck. My earliest memories also were of the
huge factory shed and dead machineries catching rust. The area is called
Girjapara and very near to the railway station. Girja is a church, and the
Raniganj church still stand as a testimony to the times of the British. My
Didama occupied a portion of the bungalow which had three huge rooms placed in
a line facing a very big veranda, a big kitchen and a bathroom. Two of those
big rooms were utilised as bedrooms. The toilet was separate, initially it was
a manual scavengering one and a bit scary. A flight of stairs ran from the
ground to a lower veranda to the next veranda from where one could access all
the rooms simultaneously. The entire area was approved for us kids to play as
long as we didn’t venture out into the road where the coal laden trucks
frequented. I also got to know a few of
the other tenants.
The only easily accessible mode
of public transport in Raniganj was the cycle rickshaw. We rode it to go
shopping into the Badabazar area. The Netaji Bose bust has been there at the
main junction of the market since I can remember. The market place was always
full of traders of every kind with all material arriving from the outside.
Sweetmeat shops and tea shops were the best adda places and all my mama’s could
be located with their friends at their respective adda’s. My physician Doctor
Somen had his clinic near the Netaji statue and if his imported black car was
seen, then that meant the doctor was available. There were 3 cinema of which
probably Anjana still continues. Of late the number of shopping complexes in
Raniganj has increased.
The sights and sounds of Raniganj
that I have experienced since my childhood continue to glow in my mind. I can
still hear the noise of everyone. I can still smell the fragrance of charcoal
lit cooking. Today Raniganj doesn’t look very different from what it used to 40
years ago. Whenever I go there time stands motionless.
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