TANGENTSBy Ihtisham Kabir
Gojaria
Gojaria's Immersive Greenery. Photo: Ihtisham Kabir
To bicycle to Gojaria, ride on Khilkhet road past Dumni and turn left for Tolna ghat. After crossing the Balu by boat, ride another three kilometres. You cannot miss the majestic Sal trees with their large green leaves. The Sal, or Shorea Robusta, is a tree of legends. Its wood is strong: the Taj Mahal's foundation uses Sal pillars for stability. It gives us medicines and oils while playing an important role in indigenous folklore.Gojaria is its local name. I found this grove accidentally several years ago when off-road bicycling with friends in rural Kaligonj. We had strayed off the main path and were following a small stream, looking for a way back. Finding a lone villager, I asked what lay ahead. “Gojaria is up ahead, blocking your way,” he said. Gojaria? The word demanded exploration. Presently we reached a meadow: rising tall on three sides were the graceful trees, which I learned were Sal. Since then, Gojaria's spell has brought me here many times. When I stand inside the grove I am immersed in greenery punctuated by the beautiful trunks. There is no grass growing underneath - only small Sal seedlings, which die if transplanted. During winter, most Sal leaves fall. Villagers collect them for fuel (there is no gas in the area.) Two years after my last visit I set out for Gojaria this hartal day. At Tolna, I find the Balu rain-swollen, but the same grizzled boatman is plying people across. He greets me like an old friend and ferries me and my bicycle across the river. I have forgotten the trails and must ask for directions. After a brief drizzle, the sun heats up the land. Enveloped by the musky smell of the earth, I lose my way yet again. A friendly villager helps, but he eyes my bicycle dubiously: “It is muddy up ahead.” I shrug. “I'll walk then.” The short stretch of red mud is deep and sticky. My bicycle gets stuck, then my shoes. I am exhausted when I catch sight of Gojaria. The misery disappears instantly. I wander around the deserted groves, admiring the fine trees, taking pictures. Then it is time to go home. Rather than retracing my path, I decide to complete a loop. Soon there is more mud. Two men are grazing their cows. Taking a break, I fall into conversation and learn that much of Gojaria is threatened by the Purbachal development project. The matter has reached the courts. Their own homesteads were also acquired by the government, they say. “Land outside the project is ten or twenty times more expensive than what they paid us, so where are we supposed to move?” Their tale is familiar: the human cost of development. I wish them luck. The hot afternoon sun soon makes me thirsty, but even small village shops are closed. Luckily I find a man selling young coconuts. The sweet water replenishes my strength and I bicycle home with renewed strength, glad that Gojaria survives for now.
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