The boy from Babhnan looked at the vast, magical, colour changing expanse of the landmass below. The land of mythical Rama and Sita and historical Buddha, both worshipped across the world by millions. The lands of once the home of the Mahajanapadas of the oligarchic republics of ancient India. All but a blur now, a forgotten blur. A magical one, nonetheless.
Take a flight from Hong Kong in January or February, and the wheat and mustard crop growing in the fields would paint it green and golden yellow. Come in April and it would all turn into bright yellow. A month later, and with the crop harvested, it would be a brownish blur. Come in late May and June, and one would find it difficult to make the fields from ponds with all of them filled with water in preparation for the paddy cultivation.
The boy would keep looking back at the flight map trying to locate his village, one of the thousands below. He would fail, invariably. There is nothing much in his village to differentiate from countless other ones. It was not supposed to be. His village, like others around, has been there producing food for humanity for centuries. Rice, wheat, pulses, oils, mangoes- name it. And producing food was never sexy enough for the rulers to build monuments honoring the producers.
People also build their monuments, but not for this very mundane, yet, essential for survival activity. He could identify Lumbini if the flight took a detour by the Stupas, but not even Gorakhpur from Basti- district headquarters all looked the same. Unless there was a river below. A mighty river, to be precise. The small tributary by his village would not qualify as one.
He had grown up in the eastern part of Uttar Pradesh, traversing fields that led to his school. It was a long and arduous journey, often also an unpleasant one. It was a journey to decline, to have been, just like the state. Yeah, a journey from the world’s most ancient republics to becoming one of the BiMaRU (sick, literally!) states of India by the end of the twentieth century.
By the time the boy from Babhnan grew, most, if not everything in the state, was a story of have beens. Eastern UP of Buddha and ancient republics was now a den of caste-based mafia groups with nothing much to boast about. He would see tourists and travelers from across the world going to Kushinagar, where Buddha breathed his last, not even give a blink when the city would pass by. He would go to Shravasti, the sixth largest city of the country in Buddha’s lifetime and his abode for years, and the story would be the same. A nondescript Kasbah full with people from across the world, but with hardly any facilities!
His study would then take him to Allahabad, and he would find his university, the University of Allahabad as ‘the had been’ Oxford of the East. Yeah, the university established in 1887, fifth in the Modern India which attracted the best of the minds at its zenith was reduced to a mediocre place manufacturing provincial civil servants at the most. His activism would take him to Benaras and the story would be the same for both: world’s most ancient continuously inhabited city and the university that takes its name from the city.
But for its splendid monuments, Lucknow, one the showpiece of the Ganga Jamuni Culture through both: its architecture and culture looked the same as any other city in the North. There would be one saving grace though, the Mughalai Cuisine would still taste the same. So did the folk glories- the quintessential Litti Chokha of the East.
The small boy had started his journey just like the one that the state had. Born in a hospital in Faizabad, the first and original capital of the Nawabs, he went back to a village. The similarities ended there. His was more of a journey forward, from his Awadhi speaking area to Gorakhpur, in UP, though more in Bihar, culturally speaking. It even spoke Bhojpuri. The joke, very few of ones which are gospel truths as well, has it that Bihar is not a state, it is a state of mind. It was back to Allahabad from there where he really grew up into a young man chasing his dreams. Where he would sit by the Sangam, the confluence of Ganga and Yamuna thinking of the days of the glory of his home state, gone down the drain to earn a sad moniker: BiMaRU.
He would see the land of Buddha slowly changing into the biggest sectarian flashpoint of the world with Ayodhya, his own Ayodhya becoming its epicenter! He would experience it first hand as well- in western UP during the 2013 riots. It was so different from his own UP, in language and culture, unfortunately, united by the politics of hate in those times, though!
He knew, though, that journeys do not end in decline. One can always go back, rebuilding all that is lost, just like one can go ahead to seek newness. He would, he thought.