Making of a road in my village
The Road to Thikriwala: A Path to Progress
When I think of my childhood in Thikriwala now, strange little things return first. Not big events.
Dust rising behind bullock carts. Wet mud sticking to chappals during rains. Buffaloes sitting right in the middle of the रास्ता as if the whole village belonged only to them. Women shouting from rooftops for children to come home before dark. Somewhere somebody coughing loudly, somebody laughing, somebody arguing over crops or water.
That was our village life.
This was sometime in the 1950s, not very long after India became independent. Radios had slowly started appearing in some homes and in evenings people gathered around to listen to Jawaharlal Nehru speaking about development, industries, dams and modern India.
To us boys all this sounded important, but very far from our own lives.
Our own problem was much simpler.
The road to Barnala.
Or more correctly, the absence of one.
In summer the path became so dusty that by the time you reached Barnala your face and clothes looked half-covered in मिट्टी. During monsoon things became even worse. Bullock carts got stuck regularly, bicycles slipped badly and many times people simply removed their shoes and walked barefoot carrying them in their hands while abusing weather, government and luck together.
I had often seen four men pushing a cart from behind while one fellow stood comfortably on the side giving free advice to everybody.
Every pind has such people.
We were three close friends then — me, Prem; Gauri, who was sharper than both of us put together; and Maggar Singh, tall fellow with loud laughter and endless energy for mischief.
From morning till evening we wandered everywhere together. Most elders in the village were probably tired of seeing our faces all the time.
The idea of building a proper road had come up earlier too in village discussions, but like many such discussions it usually ended with people nodding seriously and saying, “haanji, ਵੇਖਾਂਗੇ.”
Then one day Sarpanch Heera Singh Bhattal called everybody together and spoke properly about building a road to Barnala.
Heera Singh was one of those men whose voice itself sounded strong enough to plough fields. Big man, big beard, big presence.
He stood there and said,
“We cannot remain cut off like this forever. ਜ਼ਮਾਨਾ ਬਦਲ ਰਿਹਾ ਹੈ | ”
People listened carefully.
Some began thinking about easier crop transport. Some about markets. Some about schools for children. And some probably wondered silently where money for all this would come from.
As for us boys, our dream was much simpler.
To ride bicycle properly without falling into mud every few days.
That itself seemed enough progress for the country.
I remember whispering to Gauri,
“We should also help.”
Gauri immediately replied,
“They won’t let useless fellows like us go near any real work.”
Maggar laughed loudly,
“Who is asking for permission?”
Next morning villagers gathered with tools, baskets and spades. Since nobody trusted children with serious work, we made our own department — tea, lassi and food supply.
And naturally I declared myself in charge, though even today I cannot say exactly in charge of what.
Gauri organized things sensibly. Maggar carried heavy matkas around proudly as if he alone was building the whole road. I mostly ran here and there giving unnecessary suggestions to everybody.
Still, people seemed happy seeing us involved.
We carried hot tea in steel glasses, rotis wrapped in cloth, onions, jaggery and cold lassi in big earthen pots. Workers sat under trees wiping sweat with gamchas and drinking lassi in one long breath.
One old villager laughed and said,
“ਓਏ ਹੋਏ ਅੱਜ ਤਾਂ ਤੁਸੀਂ ਸਾਨੂੰ ਰਾਜਾ ਬਣਾ ਦਿੱਤੈ”
After hearing that, we started working with even more enthusiasm.
One afternoon while serving tea to Sarpanch ji, I proudly announced,
“We are also helping build the road.”
He looked at the three of us for a few moments and burst out laughing.
“Accha? Then road will finish after ten years.”
Everybody nearby started laughing loudly.
Maggar immediately replied,
“When road gets completed maybe Nehru ji himself will come to Thikriwala.”
That created even bigger laughter.
But after that Heera Singh said something which stayed with me.
“Road is important, yes. But bigger thing is that village is building it together.”
At that age I did not fully understand what he meant. Honestly speaking, I was more busy imagining myself riding bicycle at full speed without suddenly getting thrown into a ditch.
Work continued for many weeks.
Men dug earth, leveled ground and carried stones in baskets. We boys kept running here and there pretending to supervise matters. Once an older worker even allowed us to place a few stones ourselves.
Within half an hour our backs started hurting and all ideas of becoming great laborers disappeared.
Hard work always looks easier from distance.
Slowly though, the road began taking shape. Every few days it looked a little firmer and a little straighter.
And with that, something else also changed.
People had started speaking differently.
Barnala no longer felt very far away.
Then finally one evening the road was completed.
Whole village gathered there. Children shouting and running around, women talking amongst themselves, elders standing quietly with that look people get when they feel happy but do not say much.
We boys simply ran up and down the road again and again.
No mud sticking to cycle tyres, no fear of slipping, no getting down every little while to drag bicycle wheels out again.
For us boys, that road felt no less than a miracle.
As the sun started going down, Sarpanch ji stood silently looking at the road for some time and then said softly,
“Today Thikriwala has taken one step ahead.”
Simple sentence.
But perhaps true.
Today when I think back after so many years, I feel that road was not merely mud, stone and labor. Something changed inside people also. Slowly buses became regular, farmers travelled more easily, children started going outside for studies, markets came closer.
Maybe people themselves started feeling that life could become bigger than what they had always seen around them.
And whenever these memories return, I still see three foolish boys running on that newly built road as if future itself had arrived in our village.
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