The Crossing

We were to move to the next village, Kodra. A village that resided in between the embankments of the Kosi. And for this we had to cross one of the rivulets (some rivulet!) of the river.

The bank was steep. The water ran fast and swirled in eddies far below. This river was different. Her speed and power, even during the off-monsoon time, was not to be taken lightly. We waited patiently for the boat to come in from the other side.

No engines. No oars. How did it work, I wondered.

Two stumps, one on each bank. A strong, plastic rope tied around them, across the river. (ignore the people on the forefront ...)

Another piece of rope hung from this, something to hang on to?

And anybody could just pull themselves, on the boat, across.

Simple? Simple.

Jugaad, again !

We are in this Musahar village. The Musahari community is one of the most marginalised community. A neglected, backward and really really poor lot. No education. No specific skill-sets. Totally dependent on the mai-baap landlord. And most probably a bonded-labour to boot, though one would not reveal it, even in whispers.

It is evening. Dusk is falling fast. The fires glow bright warming up the chilling air. Smoke billows around. And there... out there was a teensy-weensy, bright, LED light, lighting up this guy's little shop. And we all stand around and admire the handywork of this proud father's son, making suitable noises. Until he unwittingly reveals that it was done by his 10-year old son, who probably hasn't gone to school !

Jugaad !

Jugaad !

Jugaad is such a lovely word ... it means improvisation, innovation, finding solutions in most unexpected ways ... a "un"-scientific, out-of-the-box, ingenious solution to problems that may otherwise seem difficult to solve.

And this one was one such totally unexpected Jugaad !

The fire was out and the embers were burning low. The customers were early but hungry. A quick solution to getting the fire up and burning is needed. Out comes a beat-up, old, rickety fan. The two wires are stuck into the socket. The fan shoved near the opening of the choolah. A whirr. And the embers burst into flames. The rotis come rolling out and the subzi gets done in a jiffy. The customers are served.

Everyone is happy.