“Nobody can ride your back if your back’s not bent.”
In an era long past, with the British were ruling the world and the rest were cowering under its might, a mistreated village, lost in the vastness of India, stood up to it and dared defy it, led by one lone, young man.
This young man - devastated by the loss of his father - spends his days chasing animals away; away from the danger lurking in the form of a prowling huntsman donning the mark of the British Raj with a fierce pride in his eyes and his gait.
A village - plagued by famine and drought and the ever-greedy officials of the Raj - desperately waits for the dark clouds of the monsoon that would bring the rain that wash way their misery, their hunger, their thirst, and the greed of the men in red. But it never comes; the clouds deign to bless the village of Champaner with nothing more than their shadow.
And then one day it comes - the ominous sound of the trumpet that signals the arrival of yet another demand and nothing but more hunger and more fear. The tax has been doubled.
And so the weary villagers load their bundle of misery and starvation and oppression upon their heads and take it to the one man who could solve it all - the King - their only hope against the firang. The King however, is helpless, and brings no relief to the worn villagers - they must do what the British ask of them.
And all the while, the young man watches silently - anger and outrage burning in his eyes if anyone cares to look. Will this injustice never end?
The villagers drearily set to work - it seems nothing could possibly get worse - until it does. That night, the night air is abuzz with scandal - the young man, it seems, has made a bet with that British man that hunts - a bet that involves some sort of a sport called cricket. If they when the game, they do not pay any tax for the next three years.
But if they lose - they pay thrice the tax.
Yet again they go to their King - pleading for forgiveness at the young man’s foolishness - but the King is helpless against the might of the British - the game must be played.
All seems lost - all but the determination of the young man - who, with the support of five other villagers - throws himself at the game with everything he has. It isn’t a game, he says. Not to us. It may be a game to the British. To us, it is a chance at life! Imagine! Imagine, finally, being able to keep what we grow. The children of the village will never go hungry again.
Disdainful though they are, the young man’s determination and enthusiasm is infectious. Spurred on by the presence of the beautiful, sympathetic woman from the cantonment - who knows everything they need to know about cricket, and wishes to help them for she believes the British are treating the villagers unfairly - they train and train until even the most cynical of the elders must concede - perhaps they do have a chance.
The day of the match arrives, and and on and on it drags for three days. The young man faces trials he has never before dreamed of - betrayal, loss, hopelessness, fear - it all comes flooding upon him. But his eyes never leave the goal, and his resolve never wavers. The British play for sport, He tells himself. We play for our lives.
That is, perhaps, why they win too.
And that is the day - the day they win - that brings the dark clouds crashing onto the horizon, and brings with it a flood of everything they had wished for in its wake.
And the young man, who refused to bow to the British, and battled against the odds and beat the British at their own game? His name, now lost in the history books, was Bhuvan.
Inspired by the events of Lagaan.
Note to self - NEVER EDIT THINGS WITH THE PHONE APP. Good god, that screwed the formatting up! All fixed now though.
-written for week 4 of LJ Idol.-
This young man - devastated by the loss of his father - spends his days chasing animals away; away from the danger lurking in the form of a prowling huntsman donning the mark of the British Raj with a fierce pride in his eyes and his gait.
A village - plagued by famine and drought and the ever-greedy officials of the Raj - desperately waits for the dark clouds of the monsoon that would bring the rain that wash way their misery, their hunger, their thirst, and the greed of the men in red. But it never comes; the clouds deign to bless the village of Champaner with nothing more than their shadow.
And then one day it comes - the ominous sound of the trumpet that signals the arrival of yet another demand and nothing but more hunger and more fear. The tax has been doubled.
And so the weary villagers load their bundle of misery and starvation and oppression upon their heads and take it to the one man who could solve it all - the King - their only hope against the firang. The King however, is helpless, and brings no relief to the worn villagers - they must do what the British ask of them.
And all the while, the young man watches silently - anger and outrage burning in his eyes if anyone cares to look. Will this injustice never end?
The villagers drearily set to work - it seems nothing could possibly get worse - until it does. That night, the night air is abuzz with scandal - the young man, it seems, has made a bet with that British man that hunts - a bet that involves some sort of a sport called cricket. If they when the game, they do not pay any tax for the next three years.
But if they lose - they pay thrice the tax.
Yet again they go to their King - pleading for forgiveness at the young man’s foolishness - but the King is helpless against the might of the British - the game must be played.
All seems lost - all but the determination of the young man - who, with the support of five other villagers - throws himself at the game with everything he has. It isn’t a game, he says. Not to us. It may be a game to the British. To us, it is a chance at life! Imagine! Imagine, finally, being able to keep what we grow. The children of the village will never go hungry again.
Disdainful though they are, the young man’s determination and enthusiasm is infectious. Spurred on by the presence of the beautiful, sympathetic woman from the cantonment - who knows everything they need to know about cricket, and wishes to help them for she believes the British are treating the villagers unfairly - they train and train until even the most cynical of the elders must concede - perhaps they do have a chance.
The day of the match arrives, and and on and on it drags for three days. The young man faces trials he has never before dreamed of - betrayal, loss, hopelessness, fear - it all comes flooding upon him. But his eyes never leave the goal, and his resolve never wavers. The British play for sport, He tells himself. We play for our lives.
That is, perhaps, why they win too.
And that is the day - the day they win - that brings the dark clouds crashing onto the horizon, and brings with it a flood of everything they had wished for in its wake.
And the young man, who refused to bow to the British, and battled against the odds and beat the British at their own game? His name, now lost in the history books, was Bhuvan.
Inspired by the events of Lagaan.
Note to self - NEVER EDIT THINGS WITH THE PHONE APP. Good god, that screwed the formatting up! All fixed now though.
-written for week 4 of LJ Idol.-