Walter Bhengra Tarun, “Sangi” 

Source: 
https://hindikahani.hindi-kavita.com/Sangi-Walter-Bhengra-Tarun.php

The battalion has just returned from the exercise. The fatigue of the long journey is clearly visible on the soldiers’ faces. Their uniforms have darkened. The lorries, jeeps, and other vehicles, shamelessly covered in dust, are playing their own game of colors. Yet, the joy of returning to the cantonment is evident in the soldiers’ eyes. In such moments, the cantonment feels no less than home.

Whether in war or peace, weapons must remain sharp. One must not risk the sword failing in a critical moment. War is dreadful, and even a mock war during an “exercise” is no less terrifying. Even there, soldiers lose their lives. Running across sand dunes in the deserts of Rajasthan or advancing through the rugged mountain paths along the northwestern border — none of it is any less dangerous or painful.

Guns, rifles, machine guns, cannons, mortars, tanks, missiles, landmines, air strikes — everything is part of this mock war. Despite full vigilance and alertness, many soldiers lose their lives even in these simulations. Every moment is filled with tension.

And after those long, tense moments, the atmosphere of the cantonment feels so warm, so peaceful and dear.

“Lance Naik Fagu Munda, letter!” As soon as Fagu stepped into the barracks, he received a letter. For a moment, he stood still.

“Hey friend, read the letter in peace — take it easy. First, lighten your load!” said a fellow soldier from behind, patting Fagu on the shoulder.

Fagu smiled at him.

He couldn’t recognize the handwriting on the envelope. Slowly, he walked to his cot. After unloading his gear from his shoulders and back, he began to open the envelope.

From the very first word — “Sangi” (companion) — the past began to unfold before his eyes. A young woman’s radiant image started forming in his mind. He drifted into memory…

In the middle of the village market, a few mischievous young men were troubling a young woman. Sometimes they would tug at her scarf, sometimes they would surround her as she walked. It was a crowded marketplace. In such places, pushing and jostling are common. What could she do? People were busy with their buying and selling. These hooligans wait precisely for such opportunities.

Fagu was home on extended leave. He too had come to the market to buy some essentials. His eyes had fallen on that young woman. She stood out in the crowd — tall, graceful, glowing in her white striped sari. Her face had a certain radiance that naturally drew attention. Like a rose placed unexpectedly among wildflowers.

Fagu felt something romantic stir within him at the sight of her. But unlike those other youths, he was not shameless.

Suddenly, he sensed that the young woman was getting truly distressed. Then his soldierly instinct kicked in. At his stern command, the unruly boys scattered.

“Thank you!” she said gratefully. “If you hadn’t come, who knows what would’ve happened? Those boys had been bothering me for quite a while.”

“But you’re alone...?” Fagu started to ask.

“I just came from the city today,” she interjected. “My maternal uncle lives in the nearby village of Murumkel.”

“My village is just beyond Murumkel,” Fagu replied.

And then they began walking together. During the two to two-and-a-half kilometers from the market, their acquaintance grew.

“Fagu Topno — I’m in the army!”

“I had a feeling you might be in the military. Someone who fights for the country can protect anyone,” the young woman said.

“You haven’t told me your name yet,” Fagu said, glancing at her.

“Oh! My name is Dulari. Dulari Hembrom.”

“Are you in college?”

“Yes, I just took my B.A. exam. Our family works in a tea garden. My college education is complete. Before returning, I thought I’d visit some of my relatives in the village. My uncle wrote insisting I come,” she said.

“You did the right thing. Years ago, our Jharkhandi brothers and sisters went to work in the tea gardens of Assam, Bengal, Bhutan, and the forests of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands in search of jobs, and settled there. Even after moving, they preserved their identity and culture. But now… now that sense of rootedness is fading even here in Jharkhand. Today, in the name of big factories, mines, and mega-projects, the Adivasis here are being displaced and scattered. Every day, hundreds of them are migrating to U.P., Delhi, Punjab, Nagaland — in search of work. Contractors' agents are facilitating this exodus.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right. Our people are wandering far and wide, and outsiders are coming here and grabbing the land that rightfully belongs to them — their ancestral land. What a terrible irony!” Dulari agreed.

“Our people are getting poorer, while those who had nothing are becoming wealthy,” Fagu said.

“How long have you been in the army?” Dulari suddenly changed the subject.

“Almost three years. Why?”

“You don’t sound like someone in the army.”

“Then what do I sound like?” Fagu asked with curiosity.

“A history professor!” she laughed.

“History was my favorite subject in college.”

“You were in college? Where? When?” Dulari asked, surprised.

“Yes, I’m a graduate.”

“Then how did you end up joining the army?”

"Earlier, people used to join the army out of patriotism. I joined out of sheer frustration with unemployment. Though, once you become a soldier, patriotism naturally follows. At least while serving in the army, I don’t feel like I’m doing nothing. Do you remember that saying — ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country?’ Well, now I have an answer to that question... even if, in return, we do get free meals and a monthly salary."

"So you're not just a historian, but a philosopher too..." Dulari burst out laughing.

"No, no! I’m a soldier — I only know how to march left-right and shoot a gun," Fagu said simply.

"You sure know how to joke!" she continued laughing.

Amidst their conversation, Dulari’s destination arrived.

"I really enjoyed this brief time with you."

She paused and asked, "Can I call you Sangi (companion)?"

Fagu said nothing.

The two-month leave passed by so quickly, he hadn’t even noticed. After all, who has ever been able to hold back time? No one. On the return journey, in a dramatic turn of events, he met Dulari again on the train.

Fagu had heard a commotion from the far end of the coach he was sitting in, so he went to see what was happening. There, he saw Dulari standing among a group of laborers.

"Who's your leader? Where is your contractor? Why are you all silent?" she was firing questions in a loud voice.

"What’s going on?" Fagu asked from behind.

"Oh, Sangi, you!" Dulari seemed to breathe a sigh of relief on seeing him. "Look at these innocent village laborers — city contractors are luring them away to Delhi and Punjab. When questioned, they say the contractor promised them twenty rupees per day along with free food, water, and medical care. What a huge lie and deception! No contractor offers such high wages today. And look, there are young women and small children among them. They’re being taken away secretly. On top of that, each of them has been made to pay two hundred rupees under the pretense of travel expenses. They don’t even have tickets. Legally, workers can only be taken outside the state after proper registration."

"There's still over half an hour before the train departs," Fagu said, checking his watch.

"Come on, let’s go meet the station master."

Both of them got off the train. The railway police office was right ahead. Fagu paused for a moment to look in that direction.

"The police won’t do anything. If they were really so dutiful, hundreds of Adivasi laborers wouldn’t be trafficked like this every day," Dulari said with determination.

"Station Master sir, unregistered laborers — including women and children — are being taken to Punjab in the train right in front of your station," Dulari said as soon as she entered his office.

"What can I do about it? Every day hundreds of workers travel out," the station master said indifferently.

"They are illiterate and crushed by poverty. Station Master sir, you must know that such information should be reported to the police."

"That’s the police’s job," he replied coldly.

"But this is happening at your station, so you have some human responsibility too, don’t you? You must not let this train leave until the Deputy Commissioner or a magistrate arrives to conduct a proper inspection," Dulari’s voice trembled with rising emotion.

"Oh, let these poor people go. They'll earn a living wherever they’re going. Why do you care so much?" The station master tried to deflect.

"No! I do care — I care very much!" Dulari’s voice now trembled with anger. "These illiterate Adivasi laborers are our brothers and sisters! They can’t be exploited any longer. They’re being lured, tricked, and taken away secretly — illegally. Contractors use them like bonded laborers."

The station master had fallen silent.

"May I use your telephone?" Without waiting for permission, Dulari picked up the receiver and began dialing.

"Hello... Yes, is the D.C. (District Commissioner) there?... Yes, I’m calling from the railway station...! Please connect me to him. Thank you! Johar, sir! This is Dulari Hembrom speaking... Yes, sir! I want to inform you about something urgent... Sir, some Adivasi laborers are being taken out of the state illegally. I request you, sir—yes, sir, the train is still here, the station master is right here... Thank you, sir! Here, please speak to him."

Dulari handed the telephone to the station master.

"Hello... yes sir!... yes sir!... Yes sir!" the station master stammered in response. "Yes sir... twenty minutes remaining, sir! Yes sir!"

Fagu stood silently behind Dulari, watching in astonishment. She who had once appeared anxious in the market crowd surrounded by a few rowdy boys, was now here, making everyone anxious.

The station master sat like a drenched cat, unable to even look Dulari in the eye.

Within moments, the D.C. arrived with a senior police officer and armed police personnel. The moment they were seen, the station master stood up.

"Was it you who made the call?" the D.C. asked, looking at Dulari.

"Yes, sir!"

"Where are the laborers?" the D.C. asked.

"Come, sir, I’ll show you," Dulari said, leading the way.

At Dulari’s signal, the police surrounded the coach. The senior officer, standing by the window, said:

"Alright, all of you get down."
The laborers, visibly frightened, began to step down.

"Sahib, we haven’t done anything wrong. Please don’t arrest us. Please don’t take us to jail," one laborer pleaded with folded hands.

"Not you," Dulari stepped forward and said gently. "The authorities won’t do anything to you."

"Who is your contractor?" the police officer asked.

"Sahib, Raghu and Harbir — the two of them. They came to the village and said if we went to Delhi and Punjab, we’d earn twenty rupees a day. They also said we’d get free food, water, and medicine," another laborer explained, folding his hands.

"The crops failed in our village, sahib. What else could we do? Facing starvation, all of us — wives and children too — agreed to go,"

"Where are the two of them now?" asked the D.C.

"The railway police must know, sir," the station master replied.

The senior officer had just turned when the in-charge of the railway police station came forward and saluted.

"What is all this?" the officer snapped at him. "Do you know anything about Raghu and Harbir?"

"Sir, they’re most likely having tea at Ramlal’s tea stall outside right now."

"Go and arrest both of them."

Raghu and Harbir were brought in by the police. Their eyes were downcast.

"Sir, it’s time for the train to depart. If you permit, shall I give the signal?" the station master said softly.

"Alright, go ahead and do your job," the D.C. replied. Then turning to Dulari, he said, "Thank you for your cooperation. Necessary action will be taken against these two."

"Thank you, sir!... I’ve only fulfilled a small civic duty and my responsibility toward my fellow villagers," Dulari said humbly, folding her hands. "Sir, about these poor laborers…!"

"Don’t worry, I will personally look into the matter. We’ll provide assistance according to their needs," the D.C. assured her.

"The train’s about to leave," Fagu whispered into Dulari’s ear. She turned to him, and the two of them boarded the coach.

"You truly are a wonderful Sangi (companion)! You stood by me completely, gave me strength… and these poor villagers were saved from being deceived," Dulari said, gazing out the window into the void. Her eyes had welled up with tears.

"What’s the matter?" Fagu asked. "Why the sudden sadness? Hey… your eyes are—"

"Two years ago, my uncle’s young daughter and two other girls from the same village left for labor work with some neighboring villagers. Everyone else returned… but those three were never heard from again." As she spoke, Dulari’s voice grew heavy with emotion.

It was only then that Fagu understood how the shy, sensitive Dulari he met in the village market had transformed after visiting her uncle. Her uncle’s grief had left a deep impact on her heart.

"My station is coming up!" Dulari said. "Will you give me your address?"

Fagu gave her his address.

And today, he had received her letter.

Fagu began to read…