Teri Lakeerein

2. And Her

Sitapur village:

"Chetti karo re!" A dusky man of huge build, dressed in white kurta pyjama shouted.

"Tau, kitta time lewega!" Another bearded man dressed similarly, ushered an old man in his 70s to a chair.

"Achnak se kyu bulwa liyo mhane", Another man of around fifty grumbled, smoothing down his now graying moustache that still stood impressive.

"Bin mausam baarish aur tumhare sarpanch ka koi bharosa na hai!" Scoffed another man, his head decorated with red turban and his self, dressed in traditional white dhoti kurta. Walking over to the mammoth thousand-year-old banyan tree, he took his seat on the khaat (charpai) where another man was already seated.

Kishan, the huge man who had been overseeing arrangements took a pause and looked around to confirm if all was in its place.

Villagers were filing in slowly and had started to occupy the khaats that had been laid down. It was imperative that this meeting saw maximum participation of the Gram Sabha, because that's what he had been ordered to assure, by their Sarpanch. Three Panch were already in attendance, with the most notorious one, Dalal Singh ji already foaming at mouth.

Kishan sighed, and signaled his brother, Kiran to round up the remaining panch, who was probably asleep at this ungodly hour.

It was 11 PM after all. The majority of folks were farmers, who had busy mornings because of the harvest season. Kishan sighed again, worried about the slow murmurs abuzz among the people.

Some ten minutes later, when almost all the important people and the panch were in attendance, Dayal singh decided to speak.

He had been the sarpanch, before losing the election yesteryear. It had been a humiliating defeat really. And even more humiliating to him was the fact that he had to be at the beck and call of that impulsive, wet behind the ears, child.

"Samay ki koi keemat hai ki naa hai!" He interjected loudly as the villagers turned their attention to him. Emboldened by the attention, he added, "Na, matlab, hum sab kaam kaji log hain. Ye koi baat hai, jab mann aaya, humein yu bulwa liya. Aur ye auratein, inko bulane ka zaroorat hi nahi tha. Ye bhi koi samay hai khule main ghumne ka!"

Murmurs rose again, some of agreement while some against. Kishan could only shake his head. Dayal singh never learned his lesson. And then he bristled when their mukhiya would remind him his place.

"Pata nahi, konsi ghadi main tum logo ne, usse mukhiya banaya. Wo kal ki aai, bhari bandook, belagam gho-

"KAA BAAT HAI!" A voice interrupted Dayal singh's string of curses as the villagers who were seated till now, stood up and turned around to see, the subject of their discussion, their mukhiya seated on her favorite bike.

Striking down the bike stand, as the mukhiya in question, lifted the helmet, wavy shoulder length locks came into view. Alighting the bike then, she proceeded to untie the rope tied to the back of bike, at the other end of which, stood a gasping young man in his 20s.

"Mohan!!" A distressed shout echoed from among the crowd, as a man ran forward and cupped Mohan's face.

"Kaahe hamare bitua ko aise laae ho, mukhiyain!" He protested, while she raised her palm and gestured Kishan, who kindly asked Mohan's father to back off.

Handing over Mohan to Kiran then, the Mukhiyain focussed her gaze on Dayal singh and started to walk towards him, her steps filled with determination.

Dressed in a white pathani kurta and jeans, layered with a half leather black vest, with every step she took, villagers paved way for her to move in.

The bike keys in perfect rotation around her forefinger, came to a halting stand as she stood face to face with Dayal singh. The man was a 5'7 while she a 5'3 and yet, her presence overpowered his.