‘Ever crossed over a
swinging bridge?’ Somesh used to ask the question to whoever listened to him.
Somesh, a young guy,
never had a chance to cross over one. He came to know about LachhmanJhola from
books, pictures and had heard about it from friends. He always dreamt of how
wonderful it would be to have an experience of crossing over it!
Now, a well-known child
facilitator, he is almost middle aged and settled in life. He is a pale
looking, lean and hardly photogenic 5’.4” average adult. But he, to look smarter
before children, dyed his greying hairs black! Recently he had been to a remote
typical Indian village to teach children creative writing. It was a long ten
days workshop assignment.
One afternoon after a
week when he finished discussing creative writing and was about to wind up the
day’s session, children happened to point him out about the hanging bridge
built by their villagers on river Rishikulya that flowed by their village.
‘What are you telling
about? A hanging bridge in your village?’ saying this Somesh stood up and
immediately rushed towards the river asking children to follow. Not knowing
what happened, not only children but the workshop photographer also ran behind
him.
Gasping like an
asthmatic, eyes and mouth wide open, he stood at a distance and stared the
bridge awestruck. The familiar photographer, never familiar with such strange
behaviour of Somesh asked, ‘What happened, Sir? Your heart would jump out of
itself! Relax, please come along.’ ‘O well, this’s nothing’, said Somesh, ‘you
come on, come on children.’
Children in surprise saw
how his eyes and mouth were still open as he crossed rest of the distance at a
stretch.
Somesh saw the bridge was
swung tied to two big trees standing on opposite banks of the river. Villagers
used wooden planks, tightly tied with strong wires to walk over. Little above,
two other strong parallel wires well connected to the planks by many strings of
upright wires, were tied to the trees to
hold on and keep balance while walking over the bridge. Two bamboo ladders
leaned to the trees on both sides of the river to ascend and to descend.
‘During rains when the
river floods’, an elderly lady villager who was collecting firewood from nearby
the bridge said to Somesh, ‘this is the only way to connect our community with
other places.’ Somesh thanked the women and expressed, ‘Mousi! I convey
my heartfelt thanks to all the villagers who, together, have done such a
commendable work possible on their own effort.’
It was March. The river
had gone dry and its bed was sandy. Somesh the fascinated facilitator climbed
up the ladder, reached the bridge and sang aloud madly, crossing very fast from
side to side over it.
‘Hanging bridge, swinging bridge hanging and swinging
Birds are singing and the temple bell ringing
Over I’m running, beneath though now
The river is not flowing!’
Not able to laugh yet and
talk yet, the poor children couldn’t but cautioned their teacher, ‘Sir, please
don’t hurry. You may slip down between the broken planks. They need repairing.’
And lo, at the blink of eyes Somesh fell down on the dry and sandy riverbed!
Everyone including the
photographer who was video-shooting all this happening ran to Somesh and asked,
‘Are you alright, Sir?’ ‘Don’t worry, I’m not hurt; I just wanted to jump’,
said Somesh proudly. ‘Did you, really?’
– They exclaimed. Without another word
he jumped twice more the same way. By his fourth fall all the kids and the
photographer too had joined him together and started jumping like a group of
monkeys, singing at the top of their voice–
‘Hanging bridge, swinging bridge hanging and swinging
Birds are singing and the temple bell ringing
Over I’m running, beneath though now
The river is not flowing!’
Everyone enjoyed, and got
tired. ‘What is our creative writing assignment tonight, Sir?’ – Asked the body
of elated boys and girls. His long dream having been realised, Somesh, now
satisfied to his heart’s content, instantly assigned them with a story to
develop, – ‘Swinging Bridge’.
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