Yesterday, on the website of ‘OBOOKO’ I read a statement that ‘There is a book in every man.’ I took the statement not so seriously, although I had appreciated the idea. But I learnt the truth by spirit when I moved to jaypore on a ramshackle bus on 18th December, 2010. This happened so......
While journeying we take all our vanities with us. We board the bus, the train, or the plane with expressions of tremendous self-importance. It is common among many qualified people to pose an air of superiority when they travel in a public-transport-vehicle, where most of the co-passengers are unknown faces. I have always felt so in me and that day was no exception.
I was sitting silently lost in numerous thoughts of my family, outstanding loans, petty salary, unrealised dreams and so on.
By my side the W.E.O. (welfare extension officer) of Khairput Block was sitting. His tongue was restlessly producing words to declare that he is an administrator and the identity of a lecturer is woefully the least before his job because his job has power and enough sources of income apart from the monthly salary.
His boasting tendency rang a bell in my mind. And I remembered many instances when I have sung my own praises before others. Such memories made me think, ‘I am no better than he is’.
I kept silent to his boastful words.
His snobbishness also reminded me how we struggle throughout our lives to prove that I AM THE GREAT. However, the irony is that we spare no efforts to put a label of GREATNESS outwardly, whereas the inner being is gradually degenerating.
The wheels of the bus rolled down. The wind from the side window swept away most of the officer’s proud words. My mind responded lesser and lesser to his utterances. I deliberately cocooned myself in my own thoughts so as not to listen his boastful words any more. In the mean while an old acquaintance of the officer’s, who was in my hind seat handed over a book and asked my comments on it. A cursory look over the pages made my heart throb in appreciation of the seemingly original work on the tribal community of undivided Koraput.
Out of curiosity when I inquired about the author, I found that the writer is none but the co-passenger who had handed me the book. My feelings of genuine surprise turned to utter amazement, when I learnt that the writer is a driver by profession.
It is our general belief that driving the machines turns a man into a machine-Lifeless and mechanical. We expect that the drivers are meant to respond to speed and traffic signals or at best, they are reflexive. But when a driver goes beyond the normal expectation of the society and can write an likeable book, he forces everyone never to underestimate human capabilities. The unconventionality manifests newer hopes to them who are constantly hurt by the so-called big shots of society.
Smilingly, I looked at the W.E.O and asked, “How many books have you written, sir? You work for the tribal community and what is your contribution to their art and literature?” He listened what I had asked but deliberately looked out of the window at the green trees, that seemed running hind ward as the bus moved ahead.
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