Source of Power

By: Farhan Tariq

When the first golden ray descended from behind the mustard fields, it seemed as if someone had placed a kiss of light on the forehead of the sleeping village. The light veil of darkness slowly slipped away and the sounds of birds began to float in the air. But today the story of this village is not about the morning rush, but about its power, pride and decline.

Who was once known as the village chief.

The village chief was once a symbol of power and terror. His broad shoulders, heavy voice and sharp eyes silenced people. His real passion was wrestling. He was once considered the king of the arena. When he stepped into the dirt, the opponent’s courage would already be crushed. People used to say that he was not only a physical but also a political wrestler.

His decisions were final, disputes ended at his signal and people trembled at his displeasure.

But time is the wrestler that no one could subdue.

Gradually, the pain in the Numbardar’s knees took its place, his breathing became heavy and his grip on his hands began to loosen. The arena now seemed alien to him. At the same time, he felt that his grip on the affairs of the village was also weakening.

People were now coming to him less, and the neighboring villagers seemed to be fearless at his name.

This feeling was no less than a defeat for him. Then he took a new path.

He began to gather young boys around him. They were strong, bold and to some extent unbridled. Numbardar made them his disciples, his protectors and his weapons.

In the village, they began to be called Puntars.

Numbardar taught them not only wrestling, but also the game of strategy, politics, fear and power.

Now things had changed.

Where he himself used to go, Puntars now went.

Whether it was to occupy or relinquish someone’s land, to settle someone or to destroy someone, to intimidate or to convince someone, the number punters were present everywhere.

Time passed.

The number punter’s power decreased, but his influence seemed to be increasing. Income also started increasing, and so did the rush at his door. But when the seed of power falls in the soil of selfishness, it does not bring loyalty, but rebellion.

At first, complaints started coming in.

Some said that such and such a punter had committed injustice, others said that he had gone too far. The number punter declared some “bad” and some “bad”.

But it did not take long for even the good people of yesterday to be seen standing in the ranks of the bad.

The punters were now beginning to consider themselves powerful.

They began to feel that the number punter had become old, and the real power was in their hands.

On the other hand, the village was also changing.

People no longer depended on the number punter as they had before. New thinking, new paths, and new supports were emerging.

One day, the moment came when the wrestlers openly confronted the number master.

Now there was a silent war on both sides.

On one side was the man who had made them, and on the other side were those who considered themselves his heirs.

Accusations began.

Secrets began to be revealed.

Friendship turned into enmity.

The number master’s tone, which had once been full of kindness, had now become poisonous.

And the wrestlers, who had once sat at his feet, now spoke to him with their eyes fixed on his eyes.

That evening was strange when the number master sat alone in his courtyard.

The sun was shining through the wall.

For the first time, he felt that wrestling was not only lost in the arena, but also in life.

He raised his head and looked away.

The same wrestlers, whom he had carved with his own hands, had now reached his collar.

Time smiled silently.

And a question began to float in the air
Who is the true heir to power?
The one who creates it, or the one who takes it away?

The story was not over yet…

The sun was setting. The sky was red with golden light. There was a strange uneasiness in the atmosphere of the village, as if a big storm was about to come. People were peering through the doors and windows of their houses. Everyone knew that a decision would be made today.

Of power, of pride, and of this story that had been going on for years.

The number keeper wore his old clothes for the first time that day. The same simple kurta, the same turban in which he had once spoken his terror. When he saw himself in the mirror, he remembered his youth. Those moments when decisions were made in his name, when people considered his door to be a court.

A few of his old colleagues were sitting in the courtyard, but they were also silent.

Dust was seen flying from a distance.

The punters were coming.

They no longer seemed like disciples, but a separate force, a separate army. There was both confidence and pride on their faces. They stopped at the Numbardar’s door.

There was silence for a few moments. There was only the sound of the wind in the air.

Finally, a punter stepped forward.

“Numbardar, times have changed. The village needs new decisions.

This was the same boy whom Numbardar had first taken with him, whom he had taught to fight, to speak, and to overcome fear.

Numbardar looked at him carefully.

“Times change, but principles do not. You have learned strength, but not loyalty.”

The punter laughed.
Loyalty comes with strength, not with weakness.
This sentence hit the numberer’s heart like an arrow.
But he controlled himself.

Power is not snatched away, it is created. And forget the one who created it, that power does not last long.

There was silence for a few moments.
The punters began to whisper. They had probably come for some confrontation.

But the numberer’s words stopped their steps.
At that moment, the people of the village also slowly started gathering.

The elders, the youth, the women all.
An old man stepped forward.
We have seen you both. First there were the numberer’s decisions, thenYours. But we have never found peace in a long time. Now we don’t want fear, we want justice.
These words were like a decision.
The voices of the people began to rise.
Now the village will make its own decision!
We are not slaves of anyone!
The panter was frightened for the first time.
He realized that the real power was neither the number keeper, nor the real power was the people themselves.
The number keeper took a deep breath.
After years, peace came to his face.
He said softly,
I have lost, but you are not winning either. The game of power is over. Now if you have to build something, build this village, otherwise you too will one day stand in the same place where I am today.
Saying this, he sat down on his cot, as if the burden of years had been lifted.
The panter kept looking at each other.
Some bowed their heads.
Some turned back silently.
The sun had set.
Darkness was spreading, but for the first time in the village, there was less fear and more hope.
It is said that after that there was no number keeper in the village.
Decisions began to be made in the Choupal.
And people often repeated this:
Strength is not that which makes others bend
Strength is that which makes everyone stand up.
And the number one?
He often sat in the evenings teaching children wrestling tricks
But now he would always say one thing with every trick:
“The biggest trick, learn to bet on yourself.”

٭٭٭