'I Am a Kancha Rasta’
Dontossow Rowshan
I am nothing more than a ‘Kancha Rasta’, you know a mud road. I live in villages and countryside. I stay out of everyone’s troubles. Quietly, I allow pedestrians to pass over my chest.
But sometimes, I feel a longing to become paved instead of mud.
The poet Rabindranath Tagore once said, ‘Ore Nobin, Ore mor Kancha, Adhmorader gha mere tui bancha’ (O young one, my raw and unripe one, strike the half-dead awake with your blow.) Perhaps, while speaking of the ‘raw and unripe’, he may have respectfully alluded to me somewhere as well.
Anyway, I consider it my great fortune that my name has been mentioned in the National Parliament. There has been a nationwide uproar over ‘Kancha Rasta’, you know ‘mud road’.
In speaking of me, discussions were even held in English inside Parliament. That, to me, is a supreme achievement, a rare honor. Because the footsteps of the common rural people are etched on my chest. I live for them. A map of rural footsteps is drawn across my body. Most people speak Bangla. In their regional accents, in their own words, they call me by name.
After centuries of this monotony, my name was spoken in the National Parliament. Is that not my greatest joy?
A speaker fluent in English mentioned me as a ‘kancha Rasta’. Though he could not quite translate ‘Kancha Rasta’ properly into English, it matters little to me. I would have been even happier if I could be properly translated into English.
We mud roads have served under colonial rule for two hundred years. Even after the English left, the English language did not leave us. Perhaps even English itself had been waiting for this historic day in Parliament. At last, it found fulfilment, ‘Rastas’ was spoken!
A farmer was crossing over my chest toward his paddy field, a sickle in his hand. I said to him,
“Stop, farmer, if you are born in Bengal, pause for a moment.”
He stopped. Then said, “Speak quickly, what do you want to say? The rain is coming. The ripe paddy is going under water. I must harvest.”
I asked him, “Do you know that I have been talked about in Parliament? Not only talked about, but even in English? Do you know that?”
Hearing me, the farmer did not stop. He walked on quickly, saying angrily, “My paddy is drowning, and you are worried about English!”
I felt delighted. Mud and water covered my body; I am muddy and worn. Yet what peace I feel! On my chest lies the map of ordinary human footsteps.
With this appearance, with this centuries-old life as a mud road, I would not have been worthy of entering Parliament.
Yet a Member of Parliament raised my name in the National Parliament. I remain deeply grateful. From my muddy heart, I offer him respectful salutations.
Perhaps now it is time for me to transform from a mud road into a paved one.
I dream that luxury cars will speed across my chest, Pajeros, and many other names I have heard.
I have heard that the smell of petrol and octane is very pleasant, very sweet. A farmer’s son once said this while passing over me.
I too long
to inhale that scent.
Translated by Majmoor Wasta
