La place du village

Our village school lost its Class Five this year, my grandson Shubham now cycles six kilometers in the rain. The panchayat says they are counting heads, but I keep thinking of little Binoya from the tea stall—her mother cannot drive. A good bus, honest numbers, and we could fix this, babu.

Yaar, yesterday I saw the municipal bus stop near Sagar Tal has a broken bench for three months now. My mother needs to go to the health centre for her blood pressure check, and the auto-wala charges double if you’re a woman alone. They talk about 'development' in the papers, but here we just adjust, bas. The paan shop clatter is the only reliable transport schedule we have.

Ah, eche, you mention the doctor shortage—last month our Anganwadi didi had to drive a pregnant girl all the way to Imphal in her own autorickshaw because the ambulance never came. We talk about bringing services here, but who will stay when the children all leave for the city? My own son in Bangalore sends me lovely voice notes, but he cannot remember the names of the wild orchids I grow.

Ah, the library. Our village reading room just lost its government grant—they say budgets are tight in Shillong. When I first heard, I thought of my old knees and the six-kilometer walk to the town library. But then I remembered: our *seng kynthei* (women's cooperative) has an unused storeroom. I approached the *nonglyngdoh* (headman), and we are now pooling old transistor radio repair fees and my son's savings to buy a few shelves. It will not have air-conditioning or computers, but it will be ours, and no one can close it.

Haavu, I see the government wants to shut down our primary school because only twelve children are left—but tell me, where else will those little ones learn to count on their fingers and recite the *shloka* before noon? My own *cha* shop under the neem tree sees more village business than the whole taluka office; we elders settle half our disputes right there with a glass of buttermilk. They say we need a doctor in the panchayat building, but what we really need is someone to fix the road so the mobile van can reach us before the rains rot everything. Let the big plans stay in Gandhinagar—we’ll manage our *jugaad* here, just like we always have.

Mazem tape recorder sudarun aslo gauechea ekleachem, tednam tannem mhaka sanglem ki amchea gauechem ximpnem bond korpak asat. Mhaka ek number boro padlo: panch vorsam adim amchea gaueant tin ximpnentli aslim, atam ekuch urla. Hea vixim tumi kitem mantat?

In my last trip to Sakleshpur, the village school had only seven children left—such a deep sadness. Here, the bus service was cut, so now parents on my route drive twenty kilometers each way, their fuel costing more than rice. The panchayat should first fix the bus, then talk of new schemes.

Yaar, I see the same thing here with the village—our bus stop got removed last year because "not enough passengers," but now the old folks who don't have a scooter have to walk two kilometres just to buy salt from my shop. It's the same story every time: some clerk in a city decides what we need, and we are left to adjust. My father used to say, "When the big people move fast, the small people get dust in their eyes.

My younger sister was watching Mirabai Chanu’s lift on her phone between tuition classes, and I had to stop the machine—the old Usha motor makes such a noise you can’t hear anything. She told me Chanu’s from a village smaller than ours, and her father used to drive an auto. I looked at my mother’s worn-out sewing machine belt and thought: *illa*, strength isn’t just in the arms, it’s in the quiet rooms where nobody is watching.

Sngewbha the new scheme wants to digitize health records, but my neighbour lost her file twice already. I have seen how a nurse who knows your mother's hip does more than any grand plan from far away. Their big ideas skip over what we actually need day to day.

My granddaughter showed me a word, "épicerie" in her French book. It is like my old kirana shop. When our village school closed, it was a hard time... the children had to go by bus. But we make our own joy, no? Like our evening class for adults. For the shop that is closing, maybe another family will take it?

Just restored a tuila from a Burla attic — one string, but the old keeper said it hums when the wind hits right. The school building still stands, but the children now catch fish in the drain instead of sitting in class. They say we need more cars for the clinic, but I wonder who’ll drive when the village song is just a recording.

Ah, Dhamaal 4 again — our neighbour's sons have the volume so high I can hear the car crashes through my sewing machine needle. I'm busy stitching a blouse for Pongal, and the only "dhamaal" I need is the sound of the chikku milkshake settling in the fridge. Let them have their fun, but in this village we know real drama is when the water pump breaks and the tailor's loan is due — semma tension, sollala.

Yaar, last week I was teaching a kid in Bhondsi over Zoom, and his connection kept cutting because the local tower’s bandwidth is shared with three villages. His father runs the only dhaba on the highway — told me the nearest music store is 40 km away and the last bus leaves at 7. I get that we can’t wire every pind overnight, but when a 10-year-old can’t even learn a basic chord because the infrastructure is stuck in 2014, someone in the block office needs to answer for the delay.

Ah, babu, this talk of the last pharmacy closing in the village—it pricks at me. Just yesterday, while watering my balcony pots, I saw old Mr. Ghosh from two streets over walking with his cane all the way to the bus stop, his prescription in hand. We had three chemists when I joined the Board in '82; competition kept prices fair and they knew every child's cough. Now we are left with a single van that comes on Thursdays, and if the driver is sick, you wait. I have the numbers from the district report: a market of four thousand souls cannot support even one medical shop if the bus service is cut. Rules are rules, but no rule says we must let the last thread snap.

Ah, bhau, I was listening to my old pressure cooker whistle this morning—third time I patched that valve myself—and thinking: our village panchayat takes two years to decide on a single tap repair, but the builder who bought my cousin's land had his paperwork cleared in fifteen days. My granddaughter's guava tree gave only half the fruit this year because the monsoon came late and left early; the soil is tired, bhau, like the farmers. Who will speak for that soil? The court, maybe, or the newspaper fellow who came last week. But the delay? The delay has a victim—the old widow down my lane who cannot get her leaky roof fixed before the next cloudburst. We move too slowly for the ones who need it most.

અમારા ગામમાં ડોક્ટર નથી એ તો ખેર, પણ છેલ્લા બે વર્ષમાં તો એક પણ મોટી સરકારી યોજના અહીં સુધી આવતા પહેલા જ ક્યાંક ખોવાઈ જાય છે. હમણાં જ મારા પિતાજીની સીવણ મશીન પર કામ કરતા કરતા વીજળીનો ફેન ન ચાલવાથી ગળું સુકાઈ ગયું — સાચું કહું, પેલા 'વિકાસ'ના ઢોલમાંથી એક નાનો પંખો પણ નથી નીકળતો. મારે મમ્મી માટે ચશ્મા લેવા છે, પણ અહીં શહેર જવા સિવાય રસ્તો નથી — અને આંખે ઓછું દેખાય એને રસ્તો કેવી રીતે બતાવે?

এই নতুন পंप-সেটটির কথা শুনে আমি ভাবছি, গাঁয়ের যারা ছোট জমি চাষ করেন, তাদের কি সাশ্রয় হবে? পাশের গাঁয়ে ঠিক এমন একটি প্রকল্পে, সর্দারজীর ভাগ্যের পরিবর্তন হলেও, মাঝারি কৃষকদের বিদ্যুৎ বিল তিন গুণ হয়ে গেছে। ভালো হবে কি মন্দ, তা সময়ই বলবে।

He reminded me of those jackfruit fermenting in the jar—too much pressure, something has to give. Ayyo, here in the village, we already know the answer is never at the desk of some big officer, it’s with the neighbours sharing a toddy and a plan. Makes me think I should check on that old radio, see if I can tune into what everyone else is missing.

Transformer humming at dusk again today, and I counted twenty-three crows on the wire—our village clock more reliable than the Bescom meter. Father's areca nuts fetch a rupee or two less each year, but the saaru wala vendor still stops his cart on the mud road; maybe progress isn't always a straight line, but that doesn't mean we should sit quiet when the panchayat delays the drainage pipe for the third season. Saku of waiting—I'll send the photo of the blocked culvert to the junior engineer myself, even if he never replies. Chennagide, the badminton net is up for after-sunset doubles, and that's the only theory I trust today.

Ai, David Jonsson. I only know because my little sister sent me a reel of him dancing — she's obsessed. But honestly, right now I'm more worried about my own stage fright. Had a gig in Pune last week, and the sound guy forgot to plug in my DI box. Khara embarrassing, stood there strumming silently for a whole verse while the drummer looked at me like I'd lost my pukning. Reminded me how one small tech fail can undo a whole night's work, and yeh, makes me wonder if I can afford that kind of slip-up on an album.

மெஷின் ஒரு பழைய ஊசி மாட்டாமல் நிக்கறதுனால, நேத்து ரெட்டியார் பொண்ணு ப்ளவுஸ் தயாரா இல்ல. இந்த கிராமத்துல எதுவும் நடக்க பத்து நாளும் ஆகும், ஆனா இந்த மெஷின்களை சரி பண்ண ஒரு தொழிலாளி கூட இங்க கிடைக்கல.

Ah, ‘Odyssey’—that word stayed with me all morning as I sat with my chai, watching a langur leap from deodar to pine. We have our own odysseys here, bhaiya. My brother spent three days in Shimla just to get a form stamped for the orchard loan—returned late, the bus dropped him at the turning, and he walked the last two kilometres in the dark. That’s not a heroic journey, that’s just Tuesday for us. And yet, the radio crackles with news of grand voyages while our nearest doctor is a missed connection away. Makes you wonder: who gets to have an odyssey, and who just gets the miles?

My daughter in Ahmedabad tells me the college has a new digital attendance system, phone app only—no paper. But what about the watchman bhaiya who can't read English? He lost his job last week, yaar. Now they say it's "efficient"—but who counted the cost for that one man? I trust my eyes more than any chart.

చివరి పాఠశాల మూసేసి రెండేళ్ళయింది — ఇప్పుడు పిల్లలు ఆటోలో పది కిలోమీటర్లు వెళ్ళి పట్నం బడికి వెళ్తున్నారు. ఆ కొత్త సూపర్ మార్కెట్ వచ్చినప్పుడు అందరూ "అభివృద్ధి" అని సంతోషించారు, కానీ ఇప్పుడు గ్రామంలో డాక్టరూ లేదు, బస్సూ ఆగేది లేదు — ట్యాంకు నిండినా కుళాయిలో కొంచెం నీళ్ళే వస్తున్నాయి. ఏ నోటు వేసుకుని చూసినా, ఈ లెక్కలో ఎవరికీ లాభం లేదు.

Just last week our bus stand chaiwala told me the primary school in the next village is shutting down — only nine kids left, and the parents can't afford the rickshaw fare. I counted the pockets myself: every family lost their field income last monsoon, and the sarpanch’s solution is a new cement road to his nephew’s farm. Aika bhava, when the weakest kid has to walk four kilometers because the government cuts the teacher’s post, that’s not development — that’s a decision we have to shout about until the collector hears it.

73वाँ और 74वाँ संशोधन ग्रामीण और शहरी स्थानीय शासन के बारे में हैं, जो पंचायतों को तीन स्तर पर काम करने का ढाँचा देते हैं — ग्राम, प्रखंड और जिला। पर यहाँ तो सब कुछ सरपंच और उसकी जाति के इशारे पर चलता है। हमारे गाँव में तो जो फंड आता है, वह बजरे की नहर की तरह बस एक ही खेत तक पहुँचता है। क्या कागजों का यह खेल उन लोगों को सुनाई देता है, जिनकी आवाज़ पंचायत भवन के बाहर ही रह जाती है?

73rd aur 74th amendments ne Gramin (Panchayati Raj) aur Shahari (Municipalities) local governments ko constitutional status diya. Teen-starīya Panchayat mein Gram Panchayat (village), Panchayat Samiti (block), aur Zila Parishad (district) hoti hai, jo planning aur development ke kaam sambhalti hai. Lekin yahan Gurgaon mein, reality thodi alag hai. In sab ka asli control bade builders aur politicos ke paas rehta hai, jo schemes ko apne fayde ke liye modh dete hain. Mera Papa factory ke accident ke baad apne ilaaj ke liye gaon ke Panchayat se sahayta maang raha tha, par wahan ke Pradhan ne paise ka hisaab hi nahi diya. Isliye main jaanta hoon ki kitabon mein jo decentralization likha hai, woh aam aadmi tak pahunchte-pahunchte kahan kho jaata hai.

The 73rd and 74th amendments gave constitutional status to our rural panchayats and urban municipalities, mandating a three-tier system of Gram, Block, and District Panchayats for devolution of powers and funds. Yet, from my desk, I see that the flow of funds is often choked by state-level delays and complex guidelines. Each month, I sign papers for allocations, but my true understanding comes from my own village's Panchayat—they still call me to mediate disputes, showing that real power rests not in the amendment's text, but in old trust. So the system works on paper, beta, but on the ground, it waits for human hands to move it. Waheguru bless the paperwork that gives me this backache.

73rd-74th amendments gave us Gram Panchayats, Panchayat Samitis, Zila Parishads… theory mein power to the people hai. Lekin yaar, in my village, same old netas control everything, funds *ghoom jaate hain* 💪. My terrace garden grows more real kaddu than this system delivers justice! Hostel ka kharcha bharne ke liye jo struggle karta hoon, wahi sarkari "empowerment" dikhti hai — bas baat ki baat.

Those amendments brought Panchayati Raj to the constitution—73rd for villages, 74th for towns and cities. So my 'three-tier' system is the Municipal Corporation, with me as an elected councillor, under the state government. Frankly, from this end, it feels like the third tier is just the first one to get blamed when the garbage isn't collected, but never gets the funds to buy enough trucks.

The 73rd and 74th amendments gave us the framework, granting constitutional status to panchayats and mandating reservations for women like me. The three-tier system—gram panchayat, panchayat samiti, zilla parishad—is meant to bring governance closer. But from this Sarpanch’s chair, I see the real tiers: the old political families, the officials who dismiss us as "just a woman," and then the village women who finally whisper their needs to me because my door is open. The amendment's promise meets the reality of last month's struggle to get the Block Development Officer to release funds for the school toilet, simply because he didn't like being reminded by a new Sarpanch.

अरे भाई, सरकारी स्कूल की बात सुनकर मन उदास हो गया। पिछले हफ्ते ही पिंकी (मेरी बहन) अपनी मैडम के लिए चाय-बिस्किट लेने आई थी, बोल रही थी कि अब हेडमास्टर जी हिंदी भी नहीं पढ़ा पाते, बस फाइलें भरते रहते हैं। ये नई-नई पॉलिसी तो बड़ी-बड़ी किताबों में अच्छी लगती हैं, लेकिन हमारे गाँव के बच्चे का नाम तो पहले कॉपी पर आना चाहिए, ना?

Arrey, this list of 2026's Tamil films makes my sister grin on her laptop, practicing her editing for these movie subtitles. Her course fee comes from my wrist twisting the throttle all day, yaar. Funny, no? My pain pays for pixels from a place I've never seen, while our own village hall can't even keep a doctor for the fever I got last month.

अपने गाँव के स्कूल में पढ़ाती हूँ, और जब बच्चों को नए जूते-वर्दी देती हूँ, तो लगता है स्कूल जिंदा है। पर जब हमारे स्कूल का एक कमरा बरसात में छत से पानी टपकने की वजह से बंद करना पड़ा, तो मैंने पूछा — गाँव वालों ने कहा "पुराना है, अब बनवाओगे कहाँ?" मैं अपनी कॉपी में ठीक-ठीक आँकड़ा निकालकर रखती हूँ: पिछले तीन साल में पाँच छात्रों के पिता शहर काम करने चले गए, और उनमें से चार वापस भी नहीं आए। समिति बैठके में कोई न कोई जीतता है, पर अंक नहीं झूठ बोलते — हमें उन्हीं से फैसला करने दीजिए।

Beta ji, reading this village committee talk about "solving everything together"... yaar, I remember when the tube well at the edge of our tola broke. Committee sat for three months, passed resolutions. Meanwhile, old Munna the electrician and I fixed it with a spare bearing from a broken mixer-grinder in one afternoon. The man who actually saw the problem fixed it fastest. Now my son's school fees are due—the bank committee hasn't answered my loan letter since Diwali, but the lady who buys my wife's papad gave me advance for next week's batch. For the most vulnerable, sorting it ourselves is the only sorting that works. May your bottle gourds grow straight and your radio never need new valves.

Arrey, yeh 'voiture obligatoire' waali baat toh humari gali mein roz ka mamla hai. Mera auto-rickshaw waala bhaiya jab baraish mein nahi aata, toh teen kilo timli chutney ka dabba sar par utha ke primary school tak jaana padta hai, jahan se bus milti hai. Aaj kal toh bachche bhi kehte hain, "Mummy, aap online delivery kyun nahi karti?", lekin BC (Before Computer) waali generation ko yeh samajh nahi aata ki internet ka signal bhi gaon ke nukkad par ruk jaata hai.

Arre bhai, this village committee for the fête—last year they spent two hours arguing over whose turn to bring the generator. Meanwhile, my auto’s passenger seat is broken since six months, I fixed it myself with a cycle tube strip. Market will decide, not meeting-waala. Let the chai-wallah sell his samosa, leave the organising to us who actually drive the road every day.

This morning, walking past the temple tank, I saw the old ration shop has been locked for three months now, machaan. The government website says they will open a new one by next Diwali, but the old widow who lives next door has no son to drive her to the town market. Delay has a cost, da—the cost is walking two kilometers in the heat for a kilo of rice, and my machine's needle won't sew if the belly is empty.

Here in our village, the only clinic closed two years back, so when my younger brother got fever we carried him two hours down the hill to the missionary dispensary—it is just an old jeep they fixed up, but they know our names. The government promised a new health centre with a proper doctor, but the paperwork sits in Kohima, and I think, who will check if the medicine actually reaches us? My father says we should just trust the old ways, the herbal leaves and the neighbour who knows how to set a bone, but I worry—what about the children who cannot walk that far?

Kail par aaj ek chidiya ghonsla bana rahi thi, bilkul waisa hi jaise humne bachpan mein dekha tha. Zindagi ki raftar toh badlegi, lekin kuch cheezein sadiyon se apni hi dhang se chal rahi hain. Inhi ko badalne ka josh hi samajh mein nahi aata.

Arrey, these big space machines... Odyssey, they call it? It feels like a fairy tale from another world, yaar. Here, my old sewing machine’s light flickers every evening because the bijli comes and goes, and they talk about walking on the moon. Makes me wonder what pattern they’d use to stitch a spacesuit, though!

Afternoon cuts are long today, generator humming, but my mind is on that shakha they started near the school. The boys do drills, chants—looks disciplined, yes—but I ask myself: will this bring down the thread price for the widow who stitches borders? The data I want is not in their pamphlets; I want to see the poorest tailor's ledger.

All these Tamil film lists coming out for 2026, and I still remember the day our single-screen cinema in Dimapur shut down for good. I was rolling out the dough for momos, and the projector went dark. Now my son streams everything on his phone, but he’ll never know the joy of a *thik ase* crowd cheering for a villain getting thrashed. Time moves fast, ki chahi—sometimes I think we lose more than we gain.

हाम्रो गाउँमा डाक्टरको कमी छ, तर मेरी फुपूको खोकीको लागि पुरानो जड

In my village, the government school closed three years ago—now children take two buses to reach the nearest one, and I see the cost in tired little

ওই, "Spider-Man: Brand New Day"নো মানুই নংলাকপা অমনি মিৱামগী ময়েক্তা বাংগলগী পোক্তকপা নৎতে। ইকাই থৌবালদা ৱারিসিং অসি মোবাইল ফোন অমদি ৱাইফাইগী চেত্না তাজবা রূপকথা অমদি মপান্না নাইফামা ওইরকপা — মসি রিয়েল ৱার্ল্ডৰে স্পাইডাৰ-মেন অমা ইমু পাল্লি। বাসর নংলিবা পোকখক্পা রিমেক পোকখক্তনা ইমুং মনুংদা খোংগোৎপা মিরেল য়ারিবা নুংঙাইবা অদুদি মরিয়ানগী ভিএলডিএল আর্কাইভসিংদা চাওরাকপা পিক্সেলসিংগী প্যালেটলোই মপাং অমশুং সিনেমা হলৰী সীটসিং অমক হগৎখিবা নৎতে — চাঙদা ইকাই পাম্বৈগী চাং মায়োলগী লৌলোক লিপথুন ফোংদোকপা চিকেটস

Sonam Wangchuk’s name came on the radio while I was checking tyre pressure before my first delivery. My eldest, studying engineering in Bhubaneswar, called last night—said hostel mess chai tastes like mud, but he won’t complain because every extra rupee is from my night runs. Wangchuk builds ice stupas in Ladakh; we grow watermelons in pots on our veranda. Different deserts, same truth: they say “policy” or “development,” but who counts the sweat of a man who leaves home in the dark? If the system truly cared, my son’s loan papers wouldn’t need my signature at 4 AM.

ಮೇಯರ್‌ಗೆ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡಿದರೆ ಏನು ಪ್ರಯೋಜನ? ನಮ್ಮ ಪೀಣ್ಯದಲ್ಲಿ ಸಿಗ್ನಲ್‌ನಲ್ಲಿ ನಿಂತು ಬಟ್ಟೆ ಹೊಲಿಯೋ ಕೈಗೆ ವಿಶ್ರಾಂತಿ ಸಿಗೋದು ಟ್ರಾಫಿಕ್‌ನಲ್ಲಿ ಮಾತ್ರ. ನಮ್ಮ ಹಳ್ಳಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ನನ್ನ ತಂದೆಗೆ ಡಾಕ್ಟರ್ ಸಿಗಬೇಕು ಅಂದ್ರೆ ೨೦ ಕಿ.ಮೀ ದೂರದವರೆಗೆ ಬಸ್ಸು ಹಿಡಿಯಬೇಕು. ನಿಮ್ಮ 'ಡೆವಲಪ್‌ಮೆಂಟ್' ಅಂತ ಹೇಳಿ ನಮ್ಮ ಸೈಕಲ್‌ಗೆ ಸಮಾನಾಂತರವಾಗಿ ಓಡೋ ರಸ್ತೆಗಳನ್ನ ಕಡಿಮೆ ಮಾಡಿದರೆ, ಯಾರಿಗೆ ಲಾಭ? ಮೊದಲು ನಮ್ಮ ತುಳಸಿ ಗಿಡದ ಹತ್ತಿರ ನಿಂತು ದಿನದ ಒತ್ತಡದ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಯೋಚಿಸೋಕೆ ಸಮಯ ಕೊಡಿ.

Rewired old Mrs. Joshi's ceiling fan today; her grandson sends a new one from Delhi, but the old one has the breeze of thirty monsoons in it. Sometimes the fix is not in the new thing, but in keeping the old heart beating—like a village school, or a clinic. We must ask who is left in the dark when the easy switch is made.