My First Encounter with Village Life (Year 1969) (7)

 

7. My First Encounter with Village Life (Year 1969)

I was nine years old when I first visited our ancestral village.

That first morning in Bhatariya, the sounds of peacocks calling, the temple bell ringing, and the jingling bells on oxen’s necks completely enchanted me. After brushing my teeth with a neem twig and drinking a quick cup of tea, I was eager to go explore the village.

I found Babu, a boy my age the second son of my cousin Paliben, daughter of my elder uncle Bacharbha. Babu’s father, though from Chunval, near Shihor, lived here as a ghar-jamai (resident son-in-law), in a small thatched hut on the edge of the village.

Off we went to see the village. As we left, Kumvarba called out, “Go carefully! Don’t bump into anyone!” I didn’t like that warning, what could possibly happen in a village?

In rural Gujarat, each community lived in its own “vaas”, or section of the village; Patelvaas, Thakorvas, Ravalvas, Vankarvaas, Nadiyavas, etc. These “vaas” were named according to caste and occupation. Probably the air carried a certain smell of food and identity. 

As we entered Patelvaas, the first small shop (khumcha) belonged to Kanti Patel. Opposite, near the corner of the Ramji temple, was another Kanti Sheth’s shop.

The entire village had only about 200–300 people you could buy beedis, matchboxes, or salt, but little else.

From a distance, Babu shouted, “Kantimama!”

A reply came — “Ha!”

When he was asked who I was, Babu said, “He’s Khemabhai’s youngest, Poonam.”

Then Babu pointed out the house of Ranchhod Mukhi. In British times, educated locals called Mukhis were appointed as unpaid village registrars recording births and deaths, reporting crimes, collecting land revenue, and settling small disputes. In return, their families were exempted from paying land revenue. Mukhi used to write das as suffix to their name declaring faithful to the British authority. 

While most village homes were mud huts, the Mukhi’s house stood out a solid, brick-built structure.

Babu then showed me Motiram’s house, our family was attached to him, and Maganbhai’s home, the man whose family took away farm of my grandfather who died in 1930 and my father and his brothers left the village in their teenage. 

On the way back, I said, “Let’s go to the temple.”

Babu hesitated “We can’t go there. That’s the Patels’ Ramji Temple. Only Patels can enter.”

I was shocked.

“In Ahmedabad,” I said, “we go to the Jain temple near Rajpur Toll Naka every Sunday. No one stops us. Anyone can go to a temple!”

Babu just said softly, “You wouldn’t understand. Here, it’s not allowed.” I protested, but he said no. 

In my young mind, questions tumbled endlessly. What kind of village was this — where one couldn’t enter a temple, no one invited you in, no one offered you water, and there was a wall between people’s hearts?

The joy with which I had come to see the village slowly faded into sadness. We returned home.

Until the riots in Ahmedabad subsided, we stayed in the village for a few months. By then, I had begun to understand the tone of village speech.

Once, my mother said, “Go get beedi of one paisa worth.”

I asked, “151?” 151 was her favorite brand, twenty five beedis for ten paisa was the price in Ahmedabad. 

She smiled, “You won’t get that here. Take whatever they give.”

So I went to Kanti Patel’s khumcha with a coin in hand.

As I approached, he called out sharply, “Stop right there! What do you want?”

I said, “A one-paisa beedi.”

He pointed to a corner of the counter and said, “Put the coin there.”

He sprinkled water on the coin before picking it up, then tossed two beedis onto the ground.

I quietly picked them up and brought them back to mother.

But that moment, that humiliation stayed with me.

I was too young to understand caste, but I could feel the sting of being treated as untouchable.

From that day onward, I never again set foot at that shop.

The Burdened Lives of Village Women

In my village, animal husbandry was mostly managed by the Patels.

The women in their homes led extremely difficult lives burdened by farming, cattle care, cooking, household chores, and child-rearing. The weight of all this labour made them grow old while still young.

Those who do valonas (curd churning) would rise at 3:30 a.m., and by 4:30 or 5:00, their milking buffalos and curd churning work would be done. Thereafter, they collect dung of buffaloes in baskets and carry head load and dump it at the assigned dump hill. 

Then they would bathe, prepare tea, milk, buttermilk, and rotlas (flatbreads), wash dishes, and go to the fields. If they had hired laborers, they would carry lunchboxes filled with rotla and jaggery rice to the fields.

By noon, they’d return home, grind grain by hand, cook the afternoon meal (dal and rotla), clean utensils, and wash clothes. By then, it would already be evening time again to milk the cattle and cook the night meal. After everyone had eaten and the dishes were done, it would be 10 p.m.

Then, with just a brief rest, they would wake up again at dawn, ready to repeat the same 17-hour day.

Watching them walk with baskets of dung on their heads, I often wondered: “Who will free them from this burden from carrying filth upon their heads?”

The Struggle for Water

Back then, there was no electricity in the village and no communal borewell. Each community had its own water source.

Next to our home lived the Nadiya community they had a large, deep well right in the village center. Their women would go to fetch water, carrying earthen pots (matla, ghado) and ropes (randhvu).

They’d tie the rope around the pot, lower it into the well, wait until it filled with bubbles a sign that it was full and then pull it up with both hands to pour into their vessels.

When the 15–20 liters pot was full, they’d stack another pot on top, balance them on their heads with a cloth ring (indhoni), and walk back home gracefully. If a child accompanied them, he’d carry the rope; otherwise, they hung it over one shoulder.

I once stood at the edge of that deep well and looked down; the fear of falling made my heart race. It was the first time I had seen such a vast, glimmering well full of water.

We, however, had no well.

There was a shallow one dug by grandfather Valabha in our field, but it had long since dried up. So, the women of our household had to fetch water from far-off fields where diesel-engine borewells operated.

Whenever the engines started making that rhythmic “tuck-tuck” sound — people said, “borewell is on, go and fetch water!”

The engines would run only for an hour, so everyone rushed to fill as much water as possible. Women would grab whatever vessels they could pots, metal tubs, earthen jars and hurry off.

But getting permission to fill water wasn’t easy.

Of the few who owned borewells, some were stingy or ill-tempered, and people tried to avoid confrontation. Even those who allowed water might grumble if a different man from the same household came that day.

So, they’d quickly fill water from the flowing channel near the borewell and carry the heavy pots walking one or two kilometers on dusty paths back home.

It was a test of both body and spirit, every drop of water was earned through sweat and endurance.

A Child’s Curiosity and Harsh Realities

Out of curiosity, I too once picked up a small pot and went along to fetch water.

I kept wondering why do we go so far to fetch water when there’s such a big well of Nadiya full of water right near to our colony?

Why do we listen to people’s taunts, make our women walk long distances carrying heavy loads on their heads, when water is right here in the village?

So I asked my mother. Kunvarba my aunt, wife of Khushalbha was sitting besides. She said, “The Nadiyas are lower than us, we can’t drink water from their well.”

That was when I realized when a Nadiya person came into our vaas, they would sit down below, a little apart. If we offered them a bidi, we would throw it rather than hand it to them.

They usually wouldn’t ask for water or tea, but if they were thirsty, we would pour water from above, and they would drink it cupping their hands. For tea, we had a separate cup kept aside for them they’d drink from it, wash it, and put it back.

It struck me, there was really no difference between how the Patels treated us and how we treated the Nadiyas.

Both groups practiced untouchability, only the direction changed.

The Patels shunned the backwards, and the backwards in turn drew their own lines of purity and distance within themselves.

The village, I realized, was filled with the stench of social segregation and prejudice.

The Joys of Village Life

Yet, rural life had its joys too.

Once, I went to the fields of Maganbhai Shivabhai Patel as labour to help harvest kamalparu (red sorghum). I don’t remember the exact wage, but adults got around five rupees a day and children two and a half.

Kamalparu was a variety of red millet with a thick, sweet, honey-like stalk, and the pleasure of sucking its juice still lingers in my memory.

That day, for the first time, I tasted the rotla and vegetable curry made by Raiben Patalani, a farm woman and it felt delicious after putting hard work till the afternoon. 

The Ox’s Lesson

Our family jointly owned farmland that my grand-uncle’s son-in-law, Devjibhai, cultivated.

That year, the bajra (pearl millet) crop was excellent over a hundred maunds (about two tons).

After harvesting, the millet stalks were gathered into heaps, then threshed using bullock that circled around, trampling the grain.

Watching them go round and round, I thought, “I can do that too!”

So I took hold of the rope and started driving the bullocks, just as I’d seen others do.

But the animals wouldn’t move, so I lightly pulled their tails and gave a few gentle taps with a small stick.

The bullock tolerated it for a few rounds until one lost patience and kicked backward, landing a solid blow right on my ankle bone.

“Oh, Mother!” I cried out in pain, and that was the end of my bullock-driving career.

Luckily, the bone didn’t break but I never again tried to play the farmer’s game with bullocks!

The Spirit of Sharing

In those days, whenever grain arrived in the threshing yard (kharwad), it was customary to give a few scoops to anyone who came asking especially those without land. It was the village’s quiet way of making sure no one went hungry.

The Night of Sharad Poonam

That Sharad Poonam night was the first time I ever learned to play cards by the moonlight.

Sleeping under the open sky in the fields, I would gaze at the vast canopy above so full of stars that neither eyes could count them nor hands could gather them.

The faint white band of the Milky Way looked like a river flowing through the heavens, a sight that still lives in memory.

Drifting off while counting stars, I would wake to the cooing of peacocks, the soft ringing of the temple bell, and the clatter of milk pails as the village women milked their cows and buffaloes.

Everyday Food and Sustenance

Each household had mud granaries filled with grain some from their own fields, others from wages or alms.

Vegetables were rare; during the monsoon, people grew a bit of desi gawar (cluster beans).

Sometimes a hawker Ravarani brought vegetables in her cart, and people exchanged them for a bowl of grain.

Mostly, lunch meant mung dal and bajra rotla.

There was no dairy cooperative then. The cattle-owning families would churn curd to make buttermilk (chaas). They used only a little themselves; the rest they would give to others.

Families without cattle could go to their “gharakh”  a friendly household and bring back a bowl (donni) of buttermilk.

If that family didn’t have any, they had to humbly request elsewhere.

So fetching buttermilk became a small but necessary act of asking something not considered very dignified.

That’s when the old saying came to mind: “To fetch buttermilk, you must show your bowl; if you hide it, you’ll go hungry.”

If we hid the bowl out of shyness, there’d be no chaas, no kadhi at lunch, and we’d end up eating dry rotla!

Gathering Firewood

Every home had a mud stove, so fuel cost nothing.

Monsoon-felled branches were dried and stored, but they never lasted the whole year especially with some saved for weddings and festivals.

So, when women and girls had a bit of free time in the afternoon, they’d go collect firewood in groups.

They’d pick up twigs, dry branches, and cow-dung cakes from the roadsides and fields, filling their baskets (tagaro) before carrying them back on their heads.

Once, I went along with them, carrying a small basket of my own.

Along the road to Santhal village, I saw a hedge hog (shelo) for the first time!

By the time I filled my little basket, it had become too heavy to lift.

The women had already gone far ahead, and I was stuck couldn’t lift it, couldn’t spill it.

So I dragged it along, gripping the edge, and somehow managed to reach home.

That day, I learned through sweat and effort the true value of labor.

Life Without Electricity

Our village was small, poor, and dark — no electricity.

Every home had a hand-operated grinding mill (ghanti), but now a new electric mill had opened five kilometers away in Jotana.

Whenever people went there for the market, they’d carry grain to grind.

Money wasn’t common, so payment was in kind — the miller kept a portion of the flour.

Since there was no caste restriction for flour, it didn’t matter whose share was whose.

Carrying a sack of freshly ground, warm flour home on the head meant that for the first fifteen minutes, the heat soaked right through your scalp!

I too had gone once to Jotana to grind grain and bring the flour home and felt that warmth and pride.

My First Diwali in the Village

That year, I celebrated my first Diwali in the village.

In Ahmedabad, our house would be strung with colored bulbs — red, green, and yellow.

Clay lamps would glow, fireworks would sparkle, and sweets from the kandoi’s shop filled our plates.

If the year had been good, I might even get a new shirt or shorts.

We’d go around the neighborhood saying “Saal Mubarak!”, soaking in the festive air.

But in the village — none of that glitter or joy.

Dinner was still dal, rotla, and kadhi, and sweets were just a dream.

Diwali passed quietly.

The next day, our Patel patron family sent word: “Come collect your share of the feast.”

My grandmother took a brass plate and went.

When she returned, I eagerly waited to see what was inside.

She uncovered the plate and there lay a few leftover bits from their Diwali dishes.

Without a word, I refused to eat.

I couldn’t bear that reminder that even on Diwali, some people’s joy came only from others’ scraps.

Social Suppression 

One day, I went with Babu to the nearby village of Balsasan. As we passed through a certain neighborhood, a harsh voice suddenly barked at us:“Take off your slippers! Carry them under your arm! Why is your head uncovered? Cover it properly!”

Startled, I looked at Babu. He quickly pressed a finger to his lips, signaling me to stay silent. Without a word, we quietly slipped away from there.

I asked him, “Who was that? Who talks to us like that?”

Babu replied calmly, “Those are the Thakarda and Darbar boys — that’s how they are. People are always afraid of thefts and hurt by them.”

He went on to tell me that in our region, robbery and looting were common before Independence. Once, a theft in our own neighborhood had ended in four murders. Travelers coming from Ahmedabad by train would get down at Katosan Road, and while walking the ten kilometers to Bhatariya, they feared being robbed. Even if one had just a rupee or two, a young boy could snatch it away by flashing a knife.

My thoughts then turned to the newly married young women who walked barefoot through the village lanes.

When a new bride came to the village and went out after dusk carrying a lota (water pot), she would never pass in front of the elders with her slippers on. She had to remove them and carry them under her arm, and if she was carrying a vessel of water, she would hide it under the end of her sari.

It was a stifling picture of a deeply constrained society bound by invisible rules and silent fear.

Return to Ahmedabad 

By then, the communal riots that had begun in Ahmedabad during the month of Bhadarva had finally calmed down.

My sister-in-law was nine months pregnant, so she had to go to Mother’s Nursing Home for her delivery.

Once the Dev Diwali festival was over, we all returned to Ahmedabad. My mother and my sister Ramila stayed back in Bhatariya.

On 16 December 1969, my nephew Suresh was born. When her wish fulfilled to see a living grandson, my mother returned to Ahmedabad ending her one-year stay in the village.

Those 1969 communal riots and my first experience of rural life opened my eyes to the real world.

Communal hatred, caste divisions, and the social humiliation of women — these weren’t isolated events but ingrained parts of our culture.

And for the rest of my life, I would continue to confront these truths.

6 September 2025