By Salil Gewali
Long before the investigation into Raja Raghuvanshi’s death reached any conclusion, the shocking news of his murder had already gripped the nation. Meghalaya faced merciless criticism as major media outlets began tarnishing the image of the entire Northeast. Social media was quickly filled with anger and sadness, many users mindlessly going on a rampage of speculation and accusing people of Meghalaya. When the real details of the case emerged that Raja’s wife, Sonum Raghuvanshi, herself had orchestrated the murder, the whole nation was left stunned. No matter how sincere the apology may be now, it cannot undo the hurt they’ve caused to every citizen of Meghalaya. One can only hope now that these brutally speculative media houses take this as a lifelong lesson in responsible reporting. Hopefully, from now on, they will pause and think 100 times before letting their tongues loose. They should know that the sensational headlines may sell fast, but they “injure” the soul of ethical journalism.
However, amidst this tragedy, what truly warmed the hearts of many was the response of the Sohra community. Despite such a heartbreaking event, people gathered for a candlelight march and sang a “tribute song” in memory of Raja Raghuvanshi, thanks to the graceful and generous singer F. Mylliemngap.
Well, honestly, the compassion, resilience, and humility displayed by the people of the state “reminded” me of a series of cherished memories from my early childhood. They are, in fact, heartfelt stories and touching anecdotes. I witnessed them all with my own eyes — lived them, felt them. Even in my times of gloom and dilemma, they continue to inspire me and bring out the joy of gratitude and inner strength. One such story goes like this:
My father had a small bookshop in Iewduh. Earning a living was very hard for us during those days. Once, in the late ’70s, my father got a rare business opportunity. I was probably less than 10 years old. Mahavir Goenka, the proprietor of Anjalee Cinema Hall, was also a well-known wholesale dealer of Titagarh “Hattimar exercise copies.” But Goenka had decided to quit the copy business entirely. These green-coloured notebooks with an elephant on the cover were a very popular brand during those days. To clear out his remaining stock, the late Goenka offered my father the chance to purchase the entire inventory at a heavily discounted price. My father grabbed the opportunity. He bought the full lot on credit. The good part was that Goenka also gave him a very large quantity of partly soiled or “slightly damaged” copies, completely free of charge. We were thrilled.
My father was a self-taught writer as well. He believed in the silent power of educating oneself. He always loved school-going children. At that time, not all children went to school. So, my father, with genuine empathy for others, never missed an opportunity to encourage people around him to send their children to school. Perhaps for those reasons, his conscience led him to give away all the partly damaged or soiled exercise copies. He decided to offer them in small bundles, half a dozen to a dozen at a time, as gifts to customers he believed were in need, or to any underprivileged students. He did it quietly. He did it without fuss. This quiet act of generosity didn’t last a week or a month — it continued for over a year.
What unfolded after a few weeks was something unbelievable; something we never expected. Many villagers started arriving at our shop with humble gifts: fresh vegetables like beans, spinach, tomatoes, peas, potatoes, carrots, ginger, and tamarind, and a myriad of lentils. Some would also present us with firewood and brooms. It was incredibly heart-touching. I still remember clearly that one day, a man from a remote village in Ri-Bhoi came with a pot filled with freshly caught fish. I was overjoyed as I was very fond of fish. These kinds of gifts kept coming. Receiving such gifts regularly from poor villagers, my father would become emotional and would often shed tears of gratitude. I could figure out how it was difficult for him to accept so many gifts from such humble people.
Well, all these facts later inspired me more than anything else in life. My father would often tell me and my elder brother that doing good for others is our highest duty, and expecting something in return only diminishes the act. “Give, but never tally,” he would insist, a wisdom that made complete sense only as I grew older. Perhaps for these reasons, he hardly accepted gifts from those poor folks, unless they accepted other items of utility from him as gifts again.
If anyone doubts the anecdote mentioned above, I have a simple suggestion for them: Just smile at the poor vendors/hawkers or villagers on the street; if possible, buy their product with compassion, and give just 10–20 rupees extra, which they may not accept. Hardly anyone will remain unmoved or fail to “reciprocate” with gratitude. Try it. At least a few times. They’ll respond with a depth of emotion and gratitude that you may have never experienced in your lifetime from anyone else. Yes, I have a “treasure of such anecdotes” that have changed the way I look at life and the people around me. Sometimes, I do feel that God chooses to show us glimpses of His marvel through these humble souls, far removed from worldly showmanship and ostentation!
Coincidentally, for the past three weeks, I have often been gently forced to accept bananas, bayberries or mangoes by an old lady from Sohiong village who displays her fruit items in baskets at the Jeep Stand, Iewduh. It was only because I smiled at her, talked to her, and gave her grandchildren toffees and…..!! These humble village folks may not know the language of marketing, but they’re fluent in the dialect of kindness, gratitude and hospitality — something woven deep into their genes. God loves those who are rich in these virtues, not those who are rich in money alone.