There was something about his eyes. So eager, so full of questions, yet so sad. After a hard trek down the maze of green mountains, we were thrilled to see him — Mohan Singh, the lanky school in charge of government school at Kiarad village in Solan. As the uniformed brats monkeyed around, he ushered us into his office, a dank, spare room with a table quaking under files.Very polite, very correct, he parried our questions with care. Yes, the World Bank project in the village was doing a lot of good, but only the villagers could give the true picture. Yes, the mid-day meal scheme was good, but only the students could tell. The children certainly seemed to have a mind of their own as they spilled in, a riot of giggles and shrieks. Surprisingly, Guruji, as they addressed him, couldn’t seem to drive them away. Too mild, I thought.When we griped about our back-breaking trek to the village, he allowed himself a little grin, showing startlingly white teeth. “Why, I’ve been walking down every day for the past 12 years ever since my recruitment,” he said, telling us about his long commute from Sultanpur to Dagshahi, and from there by foot to the village. Thrilled to find a potential guide, we requested him to accompany us on our way back.Two hours later, we were back in his room, ravenous after the long walk around the scattered village. He got up to offer us his khichdi, making two rounds outside to first fetch us plates and then water. It’d begun to rain outside by the time we wolfed down the meal. But, strangely, he seemed reluctant to leave early. It took some solid prodding before he gave in. The climb was a lung-bursting affair. We huffed and puffed as he walked on without missing a step. Or a word. The walk seemed to loosen his tongue.He spoke about the trees, the birds, the clouds, and, finally, the villagers. “They are an ignorant lot. And there are some social issues.” The strange note in his voice caught my attention. “What issues?” I asked.“Untouchability,” he said. He, the Guruji, was untouchable for both the upper-caste villagers and teachers. “They throw away anything I touch. once they binned the whole container of khichdi,” he tried smiling but failed. As I groped for words, he added: “It felt good to share a meal with you.” And this time, he smiled.
