IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 142 — THE VALLEY THAT GENERATED MORE THAN ELECTRICITY Brig PS Gothra (Retd.)
Every morning at exactly five, this bhajan floated across the Surangani Project Colony in the Chamba hills. The bhajan was followed by the ringing of bells. Down below, the Baira River rushed over the rocks. Together they created a melody that still echoes in my memory.
Surangani was not merely a colony. It was a family scattered over a mountain. From the guest house, at night the colony looked like a Christmas tree. During the day, it looked like a carefully built sand model clinging to the hillside. The road zigzagged through four hairpin bends. The uppermost hairpin bend doubled as the bus stand. Every morning the bus left for Pathankot. Every evening another bus came carrying passengers, newspapers, vegetables and supplies.
Down the first bend stood Sharma Ji's tiny tea shack. The aroma of freshly fried samosas, matthis and warm besan barfi was impossible to ignore. A cup of tea there was less a refreshment and more a social gathering.
Across the road stood the workers' union office, its walls covered with colourful Soviet posters reminding us that the future supposedly belonged to the USSR. History had other plans.
The colony housed people from all parts of the country. The biggest advantage was that everybody knew everybody. The biggest disadvantage was... everybody knew everybody.
The year I appeared for my Class X Examination, privacy ceased to exist. The moment Ajay, Deepak or I stepped out in the evening, someone would ask, "Padhai nahin kar rahe?"
If that wasn't enough, the information somehow travelled fast. And the Principal, Mr K. Vasudevan, would meet us next. The punishment required us to fetch the cane ourselves before receiving it publicly. The caning hurt far less than the sly smiles of the passers-by. Even my mother smiled while applying balm on the bumps. And my father smiled and said, _"Koi nahin, banda ban!"_
Punishment lasted only till the next movie. Every week an open-air film was screened on the small Ramleela ground. Everyone carried his own chair. During one such show it rained heavily. I still remember Jaya Prada dancing to "Dafli Wale Dafli Baja" and no one moved. Entertainment was simple.
Sundays meant mathematics with Vij Sir. Fortunately, equations came with samosas and aloo tikkis prepared by Vij Aunty.
Our adventures cost nothing. We built tiny dams across mountain streams and believed we had solved India's electricity problems. Our heroes were the riggers—fearless men who broke rocks and dug mountains where machines couldn't reach. To us, they were the commandos of the project.
Success belonged to the entire colony. We celebrated when water was first filled in the tunnel. We applauded a driver who completed four lakh kilometres without overhauling his truck. If somebody was trapped in a landslide, the whole colony worried. One family's happiness—or sorrow—quickly became everybody's.
Looking back, I realise the colony taught us life's simplest lessons. We learnt to greet every elder with folded hands. We learnt to share. We learnt to repair instead of replace. We learnt that happiness did not require shopping malls. It required people.
We possessed very little. Yet somehow, it always felt like we had everything.
One person I still remember is contractor Mr Dayapal Singh. He owned more than fifty trucks. Yet while driving on the treacherous slopes he would leave the steering wheel and fold his hands to wish even the youngest engineer walking. Success had made him humbler.
It was electrifying to watch synchronization of a generating unit in the powerhouse with the national power grid. The moment it was successful, the entire room erupted in applause. Years later, watching ISRO scientists celebrate satellite launches, I realised success looks the same everywhere.
Today's children may inherit bigger houses. Faster internet. Better schools. More gadgets. But I sometimes wonder...will they ever inherit a colony where everybody knew everybody? Where the Principal knew you had bunked. Where neighbours corrected your mistakes before your parents even heard about them. Where success belonged to everyone...and sorrow never belonged to one family alone.
Surangani generated character, friendships, trust, happiness and bonhomie.
Even today, whenever I hear, "Maili chadar...", I do not remember the temple. I remember the people. That is the cleanest chadar one can carry through life.
Note :- Those from Himachal Pradesh may remember a folk song of the seventies. ‘Niki Surgani Wada Dam Banaya'
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