A few days ago, papa had the chance of visiting a village. A village of the likes of most villages of Punjab. But like most villages of Punjab, it did have its unique features: the people, the tree-species, the professions, the specialisation of that village.
An interesting incident happened with him there, the story of which he narrated to some friends and me.
Some people there narrated to him about the tale of a village which, some centuries ago, consisted of only madmen. No one in that village – not even a single soul – was sane. People talked in gibberish, fought with each other day in and day out, and there was no iota of logic whatsoever anywhere. People of other villages desisted passing through this infamous village.
But then one day, a spiritual master visited this village with his followers. This divine soul was touched by the predicament of the villagers and the fate of the village, and he decided to do something about it.
The master and his followers chanted spiritual hymns that day in the village, and their melodies reached the ears of all the insane villagers, and a healing effect was cast.
But it was not as rosy as it seems.
That day, centuries ago, a sort of pact was signed. The entire village but one person would be healed of the generations-long madness. It would be another sane village on earth, but one single soul out of the entire village population would always remain mentally challenged. When that one person would die, the predicament would be passed on to someone else.
But this was the part of the deed. Either the entire village would remain mad, or all of their madness would be suffered by one to keep them all prosperous.
As those people narrated the tale of this village to papa, they explained how even today, just one person in that village was mentally challenged. He belonged to a wealthy and prosperous family which made him wear expensive clothes, provided great food and things to keep him busy. But he didn’t like it all, and often ran away from his home, tore those clothes until he was in tatters, would go and get dirty in wet soil, eat by picking leftovers from ground. No, he didn’t fight with anyone, nor yelled, unless anyone messed with him. It was a popular belief that if a villager would meet him in the beginning of a day, his day would become lucky. People often came to pay their obesience to this man for he was believed to be suffering the malady of the whole village over himself as part of the pact.
It’s impossible to check the authenticity of this story today. Someone going in search of historical evidences might return empty-handed, or with folk tales that he might find difficult to believe.
But just leave the authenticity factor aside, and imagine such a village, such a world – where a few have to remain suffering for lifetime to keep others happy!
Coincidentally, a couple of days after I heard this story from my father, a professor from college narrated this similar story called “The Ones who walk away from Omelas”. You’ll find a striking resemblance between the one which I have narrated, and between the story penned by Ursula K. Le Guin. Our sources might be different, but we look at the same worldly reality.
Damn! I’ll never look at the suffering the same way ever again!
