Why Doesn't Anyone Listen

Why Doesn't Anyone Listen

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Drama

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The Mahindra jeep wobbled across the dusty tracks, testing the digestive system of its passengers, as it made its way into the interiors of Jalore, a small district situated in the Western Rajasthan. Ruma held tightly onto the steel rod attached to the dashboard of the jeep to steady herself; she used her other hand to clench one end of the scarf wrapped around her face to stave off the loo - the hot desert wind. Big framed dark-tinted sunglasses protected her eyes, and she wore long-sleeved white-colored Kurti and an off white leggings to cover her torso and limbs. Her cameraman, Ramesh, sitting in the back of the jeep, besides carrying out his professional duties also served the role of a male companion when she traveled to far-flung places for her work assignments.

Farmers' suicide was a burning issue and a hot topic for debates and discussions across the media, NGOs, and political circles. The state of Rajasthan rarely featured in these discussions, but recently, the spate of suicides had increased in this laid-back state and her editor wanted her to cover the story firsthand before any of their competitors did. Within two years, she had risen among her organization's ranks outperforming her colleagues and she was now a well-known face not only in the media circles but also among the critics and primetime news audience. She was known for her thorough research and espousing the causes of the underprivileged, the have-nots, and the silent sufferers. Her eyes scanned the surroundings - the land was dry, the soil color was somewhere between red and yellow, and the thorny bushes and cactuses accounted for the rare patches of green. Occasionally, enroute her journey, she came across barefoot village women carrying pots filled with water. As they traversed further into the village, the brick and mortar dwellings became more and more sparse and a series of hut dwellings replaced them.

"We are almost there, madam," said the driver pulling up the jeep to a halt. "You all will have to walk down from here. You will find me here once you're back."

"Okay, thank you." Ruma thanked him and trudged along with the cameraman towards the fields "Life here is so different than the city life, it's hard to even imagine," she said to the cameraman and partly to herself taking in the sights.

"Very true, Rumaji. It feels as if we have traveled a hundred years back in time." The cameraman said looking around.

"What have they done?" Ruma asked out loud in exasperation as she pointed to the broken borewell and handpump.

"Arre Madam - these village folks are silly. They destroy the pumps and wells installed by the Government. Some sell it as junk in the market for a few pennies."

Ruma shook her head. "It's like in Delhi. During winters, a few compassionate people distribute blankets to the street dwellers to protect them from the cold, but these street people go and sell the blankets in the market and the process continues."

through a hollow pipe to set fire to the wood for cooking. Smoke entered the woman's lungs making her cough, but she continued with the blowing. Few children ran in front of Ruma and their sight reminded her of malnourishment. Another chilling fact crossed her mind, as she looked around - there was no girl child to be seen. Her mind screamed female infanticide.

She sighed deeply. "So, much work needs to be done before this country can even remotely call itself developed." She said to the cameraman who was busy clicking pictures.

After walking a few hundred feet, they reached the farmland. The stretch was completely barren, barring a few patches of yellow grass which would probably serve the purpose of hay and a few dry trees lined the farm boundary. "Everything is so dry here," she wondered to herself as she stroked her throat. She retrieved the water bottle from her bag and hastily gulped down water.

A lone man clad in a dirty-white dhoti, a double-breasted fullsleeved shirt (boria) and a red turban on his head smoking bidi sat underneath one of the trees. Ruma had planned on talking to a few farmers for her research. She motioned the cameraman and walked towards the man.

On close scrutiny, she found that the man's face resembled a skeleton. Hollow cheeks, lifeless eyes sunk deep into the eye sockets, and a creaseless forehead gave the impression as if someone had carved out his facial features on a stone. His hands and feet were rough and callous. She couldn't make out his age by his looks; he could be anywhere between thirty to sixty years.

"Khamma Ghani, Bhai Sa" she greeted him in the local parlance and sat down in front of him.

The man looked up at her and returned the greeting in a lifeless tone. "Khamma Ghani."

"What's your name?" Ruma asked in a friendly tone.

"Hukum Singh," the man replied.

"We have come from Delhi - the capital city, to meet the local farmers, to understand your troubles and highlight it at the highest level," Ruma said getting into her groove.

"Ask away," Hukum Singh said nonchalantly.

"What problems do you all face here?" Ruma asked as she retrieved a small notebook from her carry bag.

"Water! There is no water here. Just get us water."

"Don't worry. We understand and precisely, why we are here."

Hukum Singh looked unimpressed. "Many like you have come here and gone, but no one listens. Some local politicians and NGOs have visited too, but no one listens. There is no water here."

"I am not like that. Not only, do I raise issues, but I also see to it that the government takes action."

"You also don't listen," Hukum Singh said shaking his head.

Ruma sighed and looked at her cameraman. She felt a little frustrated but realized she was dealing with someone who was very likely illiterate and had not been out of the village. "Tell me something. The government had installed a couple of hand-pumps here, why did you all sell them?"

"They had gone dry. We need to feed our children." Just then, sounds of people wailing in the distance reached them and Ruma looked curiously in the direction of the sounds and then at Hukum Singh.

"Gajendra Singh committed suicide last night, the womenfolk are mourning. No rains, no water, no crop. He couldn't buy food and was under debt." Hukum Singh said taking a deep drag of his bidi.

"What kind of life is this or is this life in the first place?" Ruma pondered to herself. She took a deep breath and said passionately, "Bhai Sa - I promise you, I will speak to someone at the top today and get things moving. We will get tube wells and bore wells dug here and everyone will get water. There will be no more deaths."

For the first time, his stone-like face betrayed an emotion, a flash of anger shot through his eyes and he slapped his forehead. "There is no water here!"

Ruma flinched as she struggled to keep her voice calm, "We know there is no water. That's why we will dig deep for water."

Hukum Singh started thumping the ground with both his hands and said raising his voice, "You people are educated. Why don't you all listen? There is no water in the ground. It's all dry." Hukum Singh stood up, dusted his dhoti and walked away.

As his words sank inside her, Ruma hung her head down. She sat there running her fingers on the dry earth as things became gradually clear to her. She had failed to do the most basic thing - to listen. The water table was abysmally low, so the hand-pumps and bore-wells were not going to help. Scarce rainfall and droughts over the years had eaten into the water table. Digging was not the solution. This needed a more comprehensive and well thought out approach than the temporary fixes and hasty solutions that only compounded the existing woes.

In the distance, she again heard the distressed voice of Hukum Singh, "Oh God, why doesn't anyone in this world listen?!!"

***************** The End *****************

When you talk, you are only repeating what you already know. But, if you listen, you may learn something new. ~ Dalai Lama

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