‘Sirey Bara’, that was how the villagers addressed him, ‘Sirey’, his name and ‘ Bara’, uncle; ‘big’ uncle to be precise.
He was a man of the village, rugged and rustic, whose permeated sweat smelt of the Earth he tilled. That wasn’t his profession but a passion and hence done with all the tenderness. For the love he bestowed, in return he was blest with abundance. His harvest was always a plenty. It didn’t matter whether that particular year there was hailstorm, or drought. His piece of land was ‘green’ and bountiful come rain or shine. And, his generous heart knew no bounds. If not in the field he would be seen him with a bundle of his harvest of vegetables and fruit wobbling down the cobbled steps on his round of distribution. His list know no discrimination, it was kind of first come, first serve. The house nearest would get a giant’s share and the last, the least, but, he’d make it a point to give all. For little children, it was freshly plucked guavas, oranges or cucumber and for the ladies of the house, it was green vegetables, squash, red hot chilies, potatoes, tomatoes and pumpkin. ‘Sirey Bara’s sight therefore was a warm welcome to all. You’d know he was coming from a distance by his loud proclamation. He had no refinement or gentleness, therefore, he didn’t speak, he growled! ‘Oi , la yo talai, bharkhar bari baata tipeko.’ (Take this, it’s for you, freshly plucked from the field). The village folks didn’t mind at all, they knew him too well to do so. He was a man with a heart of gold; his unkempt ways was not a bother.
In return 'Sirey Bara' was served home brewed millet and rice liquor in plenty. By the time he returned home, it was dusk and his feet far more unstable. Sometimes you’d see village boys giving him a helping hand with a ‘dhipri’( homemade lamp). However, the old man had his pride, the minute they tried holding his hand, he’d protest loud and bold. ‘Na chu malai, mo hirnu sakchu, bujis’ (Don’t dare touch me, I can walk, understand?’) Even in that drunken state he didn’t wish to believe that he needed help, ego reigned supreme.
Like any other man of the village his day started with a big aluminum ‘mug’ of ‘Chang’, (‘home made liquor of rice or millet) and like them, he didn’t walk, he wobbled! He didn’t talk either, he babbled, because, by the time the Sun was in her full glory, he’d have gulped countless mugs of ‘chang’. That was his source of sustenance, untainted happiness and even satisfaction. ‘Sirey Bara’ always wore a smile on his face. He didn’t care if his blackened uneven teeth that protruded from his parted lips frightened little children who’d run into the arms of their mother the minute he appeared. Instead, he’d shout, ‘Eeeeeeeeeeeey, yo ta bhagcha po malai dhekhera. La, la yo tolai , na ru, na ru. Mo ta bara po ta hau!’ (He seems to be running away seeing me. Take, take, this is for you. Don’t cry. I’m uncle, you see.)
He owned acres of land but was content with his rustic ways. The idea of progressing as the world understands never struck him. Had he desired, he could have made a fortune but such a thought never struck him. His intellect was always numbed under the influence of the brew that he so dearly loved. His wife and children were kept within the confines of the village provided with bare necessities. They were beauties no doubt and often victims of exploitation who with the passage of time and experience learnt their own art of survival. Often you’d hear tales of his daughter’s courtship and elopement that stirred the village folks’ normal life spicing it up with hot gossip but Sirey Bara didn’t budge. His life flowed in natural rhythm, such ebb and flow were for the village folks to experience, not the ‘old man’.
Eternal he reigned for a good ninety years till icy cold death decided that it was time for ‘Bara’ to move on; he had had too much ‘chang’ and contentment in this world. Now, it was time for change.
The village today is a lost soul, craving to hear his ringing laughter and thumping feet, However, she’ll have to make do with just his memories.
