Bound in the primeval bond of constant striving

ON THE SURFACE, THE PARTIES ON THE TWO SIDES OF THE WINDOW LOOKED DOING OPPOSITE THINGS. THE ONE OUTSIDE WAS USING VITAL STRENGTH, WHILE MY MIND WAS GRAPPLING WITH ABSTRACT IDEAS.

I took a day off to prepare for a guest lecture at a college the next day. I was hoping Meva Lal wouldn’t turn up for if he did, it would disrupt my preparation.

Alas! My fears came true as Meva Lal and his help arrived to dig the recharge well early in the morning.

He was engaged a few days ago to dig a 30-ft-deep recharge well in a part of the lawn so that rain water would permeate the earth through layers of sand, stone and gravel and keep the groundwater replenished.

Sitting in my study on a rug near the wall-sized window that opened in the lawn, I saw Meva Lal and his man change into their work clothes, consisting of smudgy vests and frayed trousers.

We set about the day’s work together. Just as I opened my book and began pouring over the contents, Meva Lal peered through the wire mesh of the door and said he needed a fistful of rice, a lump of jaggery, some mustard oil, a cup of water and ₹51.

When I carried the items to him on a plate, I was told to place it as an offering on the first crack where the hoe struck to propitiate the Khwaja (the Lord).

Coming back to my table, I resumed reading. But I could see the two men wielding their hoes in a rhythmic order, striking the ground one after the other and throwing the soil atop a swiftly rising mound. On the surface, the parties on the two sides of the window looked doing opposite things.

The one outside was using vital strength, while my mind was grappling with abstract ideas.

At a deeper level, there were similarities.

Just as they got struck when they hit a hard portion of the earth and substituted the hoe with pick axe to breach the obstacle, I hit convoluted ideas or unfamiliar words that hindered my thoughts.

“What’s etiolated? How precisely does reification fit here?” I thought aloud before consulting the dictionary.

Just as I was plumbing the depths of knowledge for an intellectual exchange, the men outside were delving deeper into a shaft that would help rejuvenate the reservoir for a long time to come.

I marvelled at their sinewy frames drenched in sweat. On their part, they looked askance during their panting interludes of intrigued blinking at the queer sight of a man engaged in mysterious work with books.

Every couple of hours, Meva Lal came to the wire mesh and said, “Babu ji paani (water)” or “Babu ji chai ke liye keh dijiye (Please have tea sent).”

I made my tea with theirs. As evening neared, I wound up my reading, having collected sufficient material for an hourlong presentation.

Meva Lal asked me to phone for bricks for lining the upper part of the well.

The day passed pondering on these farfetched affinities amid reciprocated curiosity.

The next day when I returned home, I felt content. My presentation had been well received. Meva Lal was also waiting with contentment in his weary eyes.

The lining of the recharge well was complete. I had the envelope I had received as an honorarium for the lecture in my pocket.

As I drew money out of the envelope to pay the labour, I saw the glass of the window that had separated us the day before melt.

A sudden epiphany made me see the primeval bond between the two of us.

In spite of the incidental similarities and differences, we were both bound by the condition of constant striving under which we all live.