A few friends from Kolkata were on a two-day trip to Santiniketan just before the start of the pujas. We decided to drive down to the Massanjore dam, built on the Mayurakshi river in the fifties, in two carloads. Although we have done that 50-km route to please many a guest before, we fell in line in order not to make waves.
So, picnic hampers with sandwiches, and fruits were packed, because rural West Bengal and Jharkhand, the two states that we would traverse have practically no clean eateries. A few fraudulent dhabas, which serve the Bengali version of daal tadka on dirty plates and even dirtier pink plastic chairs can put you off food for many days.
We set off by 10.30 a m, the idea being to stop for lunch by the water before returning home. About 30 km into our journey, our jabbering at the back was interrupted by a sight in front. The car slowed down thanks to a group of tribals blocking the road, playing drums and dancing. Our city friends got excited at the spotting of tribals, although for our initiated eye their clothes and demeanour looked particularly sad.
They were stopping the car because they wanted chanda or donation for puja. Since the tribal population in this part of the world are not known to celebrate puja unlike the Bengalis, we were a bit taken aback. But now that it has become commonplace for young Muslim youth to stop cars for Muharram chanda, like the Hindus for their innumerable pujas, the tribals probably also wanted to join the band.
Our friend generously donated, elated as they were for spotting the exotic. But their enthusiasm dipped as we came across the next group barely two km after the first. By then, we were wondering whether we will have to pay both on the way in and out.
We then spotted a young boy with a bowl of a reddish coloured paste with which he was making marks on the bonnets of the cars. We realised this was to ensure that the groups did not harass us again if we were to return by the same route. Some groups even had a member writing down the car numbers. We encountered another dozen of such blockades before we reached our destination. Irritated and fatigued by multiple negotiations, we looked forward to our lunch. The sight of the water and a cool breeze on the bank soothed our spirits and actually made us laugh at the experience.
On the way back, we were very relieved to find that the first few groups quickly spotted the signs made on the car and let us pass. Thinking that the return journey would not be so full of altercations, we tried to drive through the fifth group if memory serves me right. But suddenly our car was stopped and much ruckus rose all around. Most of the tribals by then were drunk, but one of them was sane enough to spot the mark and said we could pass. He said "Yes, you have paid but at least solow to koro" (at least slow down).
A few groups after, we were stopped again. This time it was a group that wasn't painting the car but was writing the car registration numbers. The man with the register went through his long list as we marvelled at the number of victims since morning. But much scrutiny later, he told us we were not on the list. By then, we were all out of the car - ready to fight. We argued that if we had paid so many, as evident from the squiggles on the cars, how did we not pay them? Suddenly, too drunk to argue further, one of the elderly in the group said "Ok, go. We are tribals and sometimes we make mistakes!"
The tribal innocence still allowed them to apologise. They still have a thing or two to learn, we thought, from their Hindu and Muslim brethren.
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