Aheli Moitra
Bright eyed dark skinned trim mustachioed 32-year-old Sukumar, driving a “van” in the estuaries of Bengal steers from tourist talk with a bunch of tourists his age and settles on his idea of justice. To go down with, he explains the history of his van.
This van of his is a ricksha. Depending on investment, it is a flat wooden vegetable cart fitted with either a motorcycle handle, seat and engine, or a cycle in front with three tyres for motion. In his days as a child, people from Sukumar’s village walked miles to the monthly bazaar to stockpile vegetables and grain for the household. The “vans” came up to facilitate the carriage of 100s of kilos of supplies. Over the years, each village developed its own market and the relevance of the van ricksha skewed. Then the tourists came, thanks to the Fishery Department’s work in developing the area, and the vans switched their duty. They now carry tourists from one spot on an island to another on the sea to a third at the dock. Sit on this open air ride, and listen to Sukumar tell a tale of justice.
Those days, the story goes, people inhabited the land alongside animals of the jungle. Deers hopped about the village, jumping to 20 arm-lengths at a go, their speed unmatched by the best of tigers. The maneater of Bengal infested the area. By 5 pm, the village had to seclude the roads; man-animal conflict remained sharpest in this region of Bengal for decades till the tigers started disappearing.
In these small villages, justice was direct and quick. Following a crime, the prime accused would be summoned by the village council, meant for not more than a few hamlets. A jury would be selected depending on seniority or familiarity with the nature of the crime or intellect from among the village folk. Discussions would lead to a maximum punishment of public non-cooperation. The person could live on in the village but receive no community support. Nostalgia notwithstanding, this was “natural” justice, in Sukumar’s words, and crimes were effectively kept at bay. People feared an isolated life. With justice on their side, his community and others far west of Bengal, stood up together against zamindari and brought about land reforms. They brought the right to be educated to all; at least a semblance of equal opportunity for Sukumar’s children alongside the former zamindar’s.
There are “duplicate” people in the village today, says Sukumar, because for justice, they have to approach a police station first. Depending on them, a court. More often than not, criminals can opt out of justice—from bottom to top, justice can be bought by cash. Or sold for a good connection with political figures. Crimes have inflated in quality and quantity. Village councils have proliferated in size—one council for too many households—and become gram panchayats, politicized bodies whose core is made up of power not justice. When rights need to be asserted, a political affiliation must be formed; the spontaneity of people uniting for a cause is lost.
His bright eyes unwavering, Sukumar has a clear point. Modernity, business and such are not enough to encourage “natural” justice and discourage “duplicate” people. His village is unable to resolve core issues with other villages, people unable to distinguish the cheat from the crowd, the ally from the spy. His community is crumbling and without an effective system of justice delivery, the love it was made on could be lost forever.
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