“Grandma, I’m going to school!” I would shout through the door and every morning, her sharp but loving voice would return: “How many times do I have to explain? Never say that I am going, say that I will go to school and come back. Without looking at them, I never mutter in my mind, “What difference does it make?” And I would repeat what he said and run away. Those two words – “I am coming” – were an unwritten contract of safety and reassurance that our elders relied on. They didn’t need to stand at the door and wave or blow kisses. They did not look at us with restless eyes as we went. These were the days when we had nothing and yet we did not lack anything. They let us go out into the world barefoot and with open hearts, with the faith that the village would bring us back safely. If our feet were filled with mud, we would not cry; He would simply wash off the soil by drawing water from the hand pump installed on the roadside and sit cross-legged on the classroom floor. In those days we did not even worry about report cards. Only pass or fail mattered. At that time, getting scolded by an elder was an everyday thing; it did not cause any psychological trauma to anyone. If a complete stranger gave us a hard time when he misbehaved, we would not go looking for a lawyer – we would just accept it. The village followed the tradition of social-parenting. Belonged to all of us. What was the biggest sign of shame for us then? Go for tuition. In the 1960s, extra classes meant you weren’t smart enough to understand something the first time. And what was our biggest luxury? Riding a bicycle on the front rod or rusted carrier, speeding down dusty trails and using the bicycle as a ladder to pick fruits. Then we felt as if we had conquered the whole world. Those were the days when the best hopes lay in second-hand books. We used to press peacock feathers and dried peepal leaves between the pages of books, naively believing that this would make us intelligent. Our faith in those delicate, skeleton-like leaves – which looked like fine art – gave us something cities rarely can – pure and unadulterated hope. At that time, every textbook had brown covers and was kept neatly in cloth bags, because they were not just ours – they had to be saved to be sold as “third-hand” books the following year. I studied from second-hand books till the eighth grade, until the curriculum changed. Yet our parents never complained about the burden of studies. Life was of limited resources, of course. But we never felt that we were poor. In Kumbakonam, the “city of temples” in South India – where I spent my primary school years – culture was not taught in any textbook; She was born in clay only. The roads themselves seemed sacred because there were temples in every street. No one dared to spit, spread garbage or dirty the roads there. This was because an invisible social fabric bound us to a sense of respect for the land, elders, ancient temples and the eternal Kaveri river. Nature was not a resource for us to exploit; Rather, she was a goddess who was involved in our lives. These memories came back to haunt me on Saturday when I read that people of 56 villages in Goa are upset with the government’s decision to reclassify them as “urban areas”. My heart sank when I heard this. They are not just fighting against zoning laws; they are fighting to save their very souls. They know that when “development” comes in spurts, it is like a flood that washes away all that sustains the humanity of a community. Calm submerges the age-old social fabric. The bottom line is that modern cities can never create a peace like that of a home, where a child can say “I am coming” while going out and have the confidence that there are “social parents” out there who take care of him. Today, when I look at the crowded but indifferent streets of cities, I am reminded of the safety of the old days.
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N. Raghuraman’s column: The heart of cities can never be like that of villages.
