The village used to be called Phoolpur, once upon a very long time. Or so the old colonial records in the District Collector's office said. It was 'discovered', in a manner of speaking, by a Civil Servant of the Raj trekking in the foothills. When he returned to District Headquarters after spending a few days in Phoolpur, he had with him the most exquisite bamboo flute that he'd ever come across. "The Stradivarius of Flutes", he had written in his diary, perhaps unconscious of his exaggeration being counter to the stereotype of the Englishman prone to understatement. Most of India, with no tendency to understatement in the least, agreed with him, and the village was renamed Flute-pur. It's flutes were now the most coveted instruments in all of India, and something that music aficionados had to possess.
It must come as no surprise to us then, that when an urgent message, delivered by hand, came to the office of the District Collector, the gentleman who held that title promptly ordered his brightest young deputy to travel to Flute-pur to investigate. That village was the district's prize possession and only claim to fame even in the 21st century. And the young man, an IAS man on his first posting, jumped at the opportunity to do something out of the rather humdrum routine at work.
By the time he got off the jeep a couple of days later and felt the soil of Flute-pur under his feet, he had mastered all information about the village in the possession of the proud Indian bureaucracy. And that was a lot of information, even for those accustomed to maintaining monthly records of the weights of all buffaloes in the district that were being paid for by the government under various schemes.
Flutepur was a rather unremarkable village, and made few demands of the district administration. The majority of its rather small population were in the flute trade, so to speak. A small patch of bamboo outside the village was cultivated with effort and at non-trivial cost to generate raw material for their flutes. Hushed whispers were heard about techniques of cultivation learned from travellers from distant parts in times long lost to history. Tens of flutes were made each year, and tested by a small group of musicians in the village, and one flute was picked each year - the best of Flutepur. Selling that flute usually raised enough for everyone connected with the trade to live comfortably for a year.
The problem, as "Sahib" was informed by the headman, was that there would be no Flutepur flute that year. And that meant the village was in dire straits. What caused this unusual turn of events, not heard of in centuries? Could it be that global warming had finally claimed a victim in the remote districts?
"Sahib", who had grown resigned to that title by then and had actually begun to like it more than his college nickname, sat down with the village elders, and had them tell him as much of the process of flute-manufacture as they could. From the process of replanting the bamboo patch once in a decade, to the process of harvesting, cutting, shaping, finishing, and testing, he had more information about the craft of flute-making than he expected would be shared with him. And what had happened this year that was out of the ordinary? Did the village musicians reject all of the flutes made that year as being of less-than-perfect sound instead of picking one?
"No Sahib, we did not need to even take it to the musicians. The craftsmen rejected this years lot themselves. None of the flutes this year made any sound".
"No sound at all? Nothing at all?"
"No, nothing at all. See for yourself".
And he was handed a flute, which he blew into, and heard total silence. Total. Silence.
And then began the detailed investigation, and interviews of everyone involved in the process. From the craftsmen polishing the final pieces, to the ones involved in cutting, drilling holes and the like, to the harvesters, the sowers and the supervisors who managed the entire process, keepers of knowledge passed on through generations. What they were all united in was the assertion that the sacred flute making process had been followed in the greatest detail, and not even a minor deviation from the art of the ancients had happened.
"You see, Sahib, it isn't merely craft to us. It's as close to religion as we can get outside of our normal worship. And we wouldn't make a change, even a minor one"
Dusk came with no solution, and "Sahib" began to wonder if he had encountered something beyond what his IAS training had prepared him for. The life of an officer in the districts was tough, he'd been warned, and could throw up challenges more intricate than could be anticipated.
After a simple, but hearty dinner with the headman, he settled into casual conversation on other aspects of the village, mostly to project an air of casual confidence. The village hadn't really heard of, or cared about, any of the myriad government programmes being successfully run throughout the state. No, they didn't particularly care for loans for buffaloes. They didn't want a school, since they taught themselves the art of flute-making, basic literacy and numeracy, and didn't need much else. They grew their own simple food, and didn't have much need for modern seeds, or fertilizer, thank you very much. Traditional cattle served their needs, and they did not want government aid to replace them with higher yielding varieties. The only one program they had contact with was the one where a contractor paid them to plant bamboo the previous year. They replanted bamboo every ten years in any case, and liked being paid for it this time. Of course, they didn't change anything in the process, but if they were being paid for doing something that they'd do anyway ...
"Sahib" made them say that again to ensure that he'd heard right. There was no government program to pay for planting bamboo, he would've known if there were. A contractor had apparently turned up in the village, asking the headman for signatures of those involved in planting bamboo, and handed them a small amount of money in return - and pocketed the majority of what he got from the government, most likely.
A quick mobile phone call to headquarters gave him the information he needed. Someone had managed to get the Flutepur bamboo planting exercise approved under the Rural Employment Guarantee Programme, and had turned in the required documentation stating that money had been paid and pocketed a good amount. It being Flutepur, the headman's signature had been checked by the clerks at Headquarters and judged genuine. Which it was.
And that, "Sahib" told them the next morning, solved the mystery of the flutes. They were mystified, and repeated - "nothing changed, Sahib, it's the same bamboo we planted, with the same method".
Ah, he said, but haven't you heard?
"NREGA baans, to na bajegi baansuri!"
It must come as no surprise to us then, that when an urgent message, delivered by hand, came to the office of the District Collector, the gentleman who held that title promptly ordered his brightest young deputy to travel to Flute-pur to investigate. That village was the district's prize possession and only claim to fame even in the 21st century. And the young man, an IAS man on his first posting, jumped at the opportunity to do something out of the rather humdrum routine at work.
By the time he got off the jeep a couple of days later and felt the soil of Flute-pur under his feet, he had mastered all information about the village in the possession of the proud Indian bureaucracy. And that was a lot of information, even for those accustomed to maintaining monthly records of the weights of all buffaloes in the district that were being paid for by the government under various schemes.
Flutepur was a rather unremarkable village, and made few demands of the district administration. The majority of its rather small population were in the flute trade, so to speak. A small patch of bamboo outside the village was cultivated with effort and at non-trivial cost to generate raw material for their flutes. Hushed whispers were heard about techniques of cultivation learned from travellers from distant parts in times long lost to history. Tens of flutes were made each year, and tested by a small group of musicians in the village, and one flute was picked each year - the best of Flutepur. Selling that flute usually raised enough for everyone connected with the trade to live comfortably for a year.
The problem, as "Sahib" was informed by the headman, was that there would be no Flutepur flute that year. And that meant the village was in dire straits. What caused this unusual turn of events, not heard of in centuries? Could it be that global warming had finally claimed a victim in the remote districts?
"Sahib", who had grown resigned to that title by then and had actually begun to like it more than his college nickname, sat down with the village elders, and had them tell him as much of the process of flute-manufacture as they could. From the process of replanting the bamboo patch once in a decade, to the process of harvesting, cutting, shaping, finishing, and testing, he had more information about the craft of flute-making than he expected would be shared with him. And what had happened this year that was out of the ordinary? Did the village musicians reject all of the flutes made that year as being of less-than-perfect sound instead of picking one?
"No Sahib, we did not need to even take it to the musicians. The craftsmen rejected this years lot themselves. None of the flutes this year made any sound".
"No sound at all? Nothing at all?"
"No, nothing at all. See for yourself".
And he was handed a flute, which he blew into, and heard total silence. Total. Silence.
And then began the detailed investigation, and interviews of everyone involved in the process. From the craftsmen polishing the final pieces, to the ones involved in cutting, drilling holes and the like, to the harvesters, the sowers and the supervisors who managed the entire process, keepers of knowledge passed on through generations. What they were all united in was the assertion that the sacred flute making process had been followed in the greatest detail, and not even a minor deviation from the art of the ancients had happened.
"You see, Sahib, it isn't merely craft to us. It's as close to religion as we can get outside of our normal worship. And we wouldn't make a change, even a minor one"
Dusk came with no solution, and "Sahib" began to wonder if he had encountered something beyond what his IAS training had prepared him for. The life of an officer in the districts was tough, he'd been warned, and could throw up challenges more intricate than could be anticipated.
After a simple, but hearty dinner with the headman, he settled into casual conversation on other aspects of the village, mostly to project an air of casual confidence. The village hadn't really heard of, or cared about, any of the myriad government programmes being successfully run throughout the state. No, they didn't particularly care for loans for buffaloes. They didn't want a school, since they taught themselves the art of flute-making, basic literacy and numeracy, and didn't need much else. They grew their own simple food, and didn't have much need for modern seeds, or fertilizer, thank you very much. Traditional cattle served their needs, and they did not want government aid to replace them with higher yielding varieties. The only one program they had contact with was the one where a contractor paid them to plant bamboo the previous year. They replanted bamboo every ten years in any case, and liked being paid for it this time. Of course, they didn't change anything in the process, but if they were being paid for doing something that they'd do anyway ...
"Sahib" made them say that again to ensure that he'd heard right. There was no government program to pay for planting bamboo, he would've known if there were. A contractor had apparently turned up in the village, asking the headman for signatures of those involved in planting bamboo, and handed them a small amount of money in return - and pocketed the majority of what he got from the government, most likely.
A quick mobile phone call to headquarters gave him the information he needed. Someone had managed to get the Flutepur bamboo planting exercise approved under the Rural Employment Guarantee Programme, and had turned in the required documentation stating that money had been paid and pocketed a good amount. It being Flutepur, the headman's signature had been checked by the clerks at Headquarters and judged genuine. Which it was.
And that, "Sahib" told them the next morning, solved the mystery of the flutes. They were mystified, and repeated - "nothing changed, Sahib, it's the same bamboo we planted, with the same method".
Ah, he said, but haven't you heard?
"NREGA baans, to na bajegi baansuri!"
