8.7
Maan and Rasheed were walking through the village. It was not very different in appearance from a thousand other villages in Rudhia District: mud walls within which people lived (often together with their cattle), thatched roofs, narrow lanes with no windows facing on to them (the conservative heritage of centuries of conquest and brigandage), the very occasional whitewashed one-storey brick house belonging to a ‘big person’ in the village. Cows and dogs meandered down the lanes, neem trees raised their heads from inner courtyards or near a village well, the low minarets of a small white mosque stood near the centre of the village close to the five brahmin houses and the bania’s shop. Only two families had their own hand-pump: Rasheed’s and one other. The rest of the population—about four hundred families in all—obtained their water from one of three wells: the Muslim well, which stood in an open space near a neem tree, the caste-Hindu well, which stood in an open space near a pipal tree, and the outcaste or untouchable well, which stood at the very edge of the village among a dense cluster of mud huts, not far from a tanning pit.
They had almost reached their destination, the grain-parcher’s house, when they met Rasheed’s younger uncle, who was about to set out for Salimpur. Maan got a better look at him by daylight than he had the previous night. He was a young man of medium height and fairly good looks: dark skin, even features, slightly curly black hair, a moustache. He evidently took care of himself. There was a bit of a swagger to his gait. Though younger than Rasheed, he was very conscious of the fact that he was the uncle and Rasheed the nephew.
‘What are you doing walking around in the heat of the afternoon?’ he said to Rasheed. ‘And why are you dragging your friend around with you? It’s hot. He should be resting.’
‘He wanted to come,’ said Rasheed. ‘But what are you doing here yourself?’
‘I’m off to Salimpur. There’s a dinner there. I thought I’d go early and sort some things out at the Congress Party office there.’
This young man was very energetic and ambitious and had his finger in several pies, including local politics. It was because of these qualities of self-interested leadership that he was called Netaji by most people. Eventually his family had taken to calling him Netaji as well. He didn’t like it.
Rasheed was careful not to do so. ‘I don’t see your motorcycle anywhere,’ he said.
‘It won’t start,’ said Netaji plaintively. His second-hand Harley Davidson (war stock originally sold off by the army, it had passed through several hands already) was the pride of his heart.
‘That’s a pity. So why don’t you get your rickshaw to take you there?’
‘I’ve hired it out for the day. Really, this motorcycle is more trouble than it’s worth. Since I’ve got it I’ve spent more time worrying about it than using it. The village boys, and especially that bastard Moazzam, are always doing things to it. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve put water in the fuel tank.’
Like a genie conjured up by his name, Moazzam appeared out of nowhere. He was a boy of about twelve or so, quite strong and compact, and one of the chief troublemakers of the village. He had a very friendly face with hair that bristled up like a porcupine’s. Sometimes his face would become dark with some unexpressed thought. He seemed to be beyond anyone’s control, especially his parents’. People put him down as eccentric, and hoped that he would sort himself out in a few years. Whereas no one liked Mr Biscuit, Moazzam had his admirers.
‘You bastard!’ said Netaji as soon as he saw Moazzam. ‘What have you done to my motorcycle?’
Moazzam, taken aback by this sudden attack, retreated into a dark expression. Maan looked at him with interest, and Moazzam appeared to wink at him in a fleeting expression of conspiracy.
‘Can’t you hear me?’ said Netaji, advancing towards him.
Moazzam said, in a surly tone: ‘I can hear you. I’ve done nothing to your motorcycle. Why should I care about your wretched motorcycle?’
‘I saw you hanging around it this morning with two of your friends.’
‘So?’
‘Don’t ever go near it again. Understand? If I ever see you near it again, I’ll run you over.’
Moazzam gave a short laugh.
Netaji wanted to slap Moazzam, but thought better of it. ‘Let’s leave the swine,’ he said dismissively to the others. ‘By rights he should have his brain shown to a doctor, but his father is too much of a miser to do so. I must be on my way.’
Moazzam now performed a little dance of rage, and cried to Netaji: ‘Swine! Swine yourself! You are the swine. And the miser. You lend money on interest, and you buy rickshaws and won’t let anyone use them for free. Look at our great leader, the Netaji of the village! I don’t have time for you. Migrate to Salimpur with your motorcycle, I don’t care.’
When Netaji, muttering black threats under his breath, had left, Moazzam decided to attach himself to Rasheed and Maan. . . . Now he asked to see Maan’s watch.
Maan promptly took it off, and showed it to Moazzam, who, after examining it, put it in his pocket. Rasheed said quite sharply to Moazzam:
‘Give the watch to me. Is this the way to behave with guests?’
Moazzam looked puzzled at first, then disgorged the watch. He handed it to Rasheed, who gave it back to Maan.
‘Thank you, I’m very grateful,’ said Maan to Moazzam.
‘Don’t be polite to him,’ said Rasheed to Maan, as if Moazzam wasn’t present, ‘or he’ll take advantage of you. Keep your things close by if he’s around. He’s well known for making things disappear by sleight of hand.’
‘All right,’ said Maan, smiling.
‘He’s not bad at heart,’ Rasheed went on.
‘Not bad at heart,’ repeated Moazzam absently. His attention, though, was elsewhere. An old man with a stick was walking down the narrow lane towards him. There was an amulet around his wrinkled neck which attracted Moazzam’s attention. As they passed each other, he reached out for it.
‘Give it to me,’ he said.
The old man leaned on his stick and said in a slow and exhausted voice: ‘Young man, I have no strength.’
This appeared to please Moazzam, who promptly released the amulet.
A girl of about ten was walking towards them with a goat. Moazzam, who was in an acquisitive mood, made as if to grab for the rope, and said: ‘Give it to me!’ in the voice of a fierce dacoit.
The girl began to cry.
Rasheed said to Moazzam: ‘Do you want to feel the back of this hand? Is this the impression you want to give outsiders?’
Moazzam turned suddenly to Maan and said: ‘I’ll get you married off. Do you want a Hindu or a Muslim bride?’
‘Both,’ said Maan with a straight face.
Moazzam took this seriously at first. ‘How can you have both?’ he said. Then it dawned on him that Maan might be making fun of him, and a hurt look came over his face.
But his high spirits reasserted themselves when a couple of village dogs, seeing Maan, started barking loudly.
Moazzam also started barking with delight—at the dogs. They got more and more agitated and barked louder and louder as he passed.
By now the three were in a small open space in the middle of the village, and they could see a group of about ten people gathered around the grain-parcher’s house. Most of them were getting wheat parched, but one or two had brought some rice or gram along.
Maan said to Moazzam: ‘Do you want some parched maize?’
Moazzam looked at him in astonishment, then nodded vigorously.
Maan patted his head. His bristly black hair was springy, like the pile of a carpet.
‘Good!’ he said.
Rasheed introduced Maan to the men at the grain-parcher’s. They looked at him suspiciously but were not overtly unfriendly. Most were from this village, one or two from the neighbouring village of Sagal, just beyond the school. After Maan joined them, they confined their conversation mainly to instructions to the parcher-woman. Soon it was Ras
heed’s turn.
The old parcher-woman divided the maize Rasheed gave her into five equal portions, put one aside for herself as payment, and proceeded to parch the remainder. She heated the grain and a quantity of sand separately—the grain gently, the sand fiercely. Then she poured the sand into the shallow pan containing the warm grain, and stirred it for a couple of minutes. Moazzam looked at the process intently, though he must have seen it a hundred times before.
‘Do you want it roasted or popped?’ she asked.
‘Just roasted,’ said Rasheed.
Finally the woman sieved out the sand and returned the parched grain. Moazzam took more than the others, but less than he wanted to.
He ate some on the spot, and stuffed a few handfuls into the deep pockets of his kurta. Then he disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared.
8.8
It was late, and they had reached the far end of the village. Clouds were gathering, and the red sky appeared to be on fire. The evening call to prayer had come faintly to their ears, but Rasheed had decided to complete his round of the village rather than interrupt it with a visit to the mosque.
The inflamed sky loured over the thatched huts, the fields, the spreading green mango and dry, brown-leaved shisham trees in the wasteland to the north of the village. One of the two threshing-grounds of the village was located here, and the tired bullocks were still at work on the spring harvest. Round and round they went on the threshing-floor, round and round. They would continue to do so till late at night.
A light evening breeze blew gently from the north towards the cramped huts of the various untouchables—the washermen, the chamars and the sweepers—that lay on the far outskirts of the village—a breeze that would be stifled by the mud walls and constricted lanes of the village and die before it reached its heart. A few ragged children with brown, sun-bleached, filthy, matted hair played in the dust outside their houses—one dragged a piece of blackened wood, another played with a chipped marble. They were hungry, and they looked thin and ill.
Rasheed visited a few chamar households. One family had continued in its ancestral profession of skinning dead animals and preparing the hides for sale. Most, however, were agricultural labourers, one or two with a bit of land of their own as well. In one house Maan recognized the man with the deeply furrowed face who had pumped water for him with so much willingness while he was having a bath. ‘He has worked for our family since he was ten years old,’ said Rasheed. ‘His name is Kachheru.’
The old man and his wife lived by themselves in a single thatched room which they shared at night with their cow and a large number of insects.
Despite Rasheed’s politeness, they treated him with extreme, even fearful, deference. It was only when he agreed to have a cup of tea with them in their hut—agreeing thus on Maan’s behalf as well—that they seemed to be a little more at ease.
‘What happened to Dharampal’s son—your nephew?’ asked Rasheed.
‘He died a month ago,’ said Kachheru shortly.
‘All those doctors?’
‘No use, except to eat money. Now my brother’s in debt with the bania—and my sister-in-law, well, you wouldn’t recognize her any more. She’s just gone to her father’s village. She’ll stay there for a month or so—until the rains begin.’
‘Why didn’t he come to us if he needed money?’ said Rasheed, distressed.
‘You should ask your father that,’ said Kachheru. ‘He went to him, I believe, a couple of times. But after that your father became annoyed and told him not to fling good money after bad. But he helped with the funeral.’
‘I see. I see. What can one do? God disposes—’ Rasheed mumbled a few consolatory words.
After they left, Maan could see that Rasheed was very upset. Neither said anything for a while. Then Rasheed said:
‘We are tied to earth by such fine threads. And there is so much injustice—so much—it drives me mad. And if you think this village is bad, it’s because you don’t know Sagal. There is a poor man there who—God forgive them—has been destroyed and left to die by his own family. And look at that old man and woman,’ said Rasheed, pointing out a couple who were sitting outside their hut in rags, begging. ‘They have been turned out by their children, all of whom are doing tolerably well.’
Maan looked at them. They were starving and filthy, in a pitiable state. Maan gave them a few annas. They stared at the money.
‘They are destitute. They don’t have enough to eat, but their children will not help them,’ Rasheed went on. ‘Each claims it is the other’s responsibility, or the responsibility of no one at all.’
‘Whom do the children work for?’ asked Maan.
‘For us,’ said Rasheed. ‘For us. The great and good of the village.’
‘Why don’t you tell them that this can’t go on?’ said Maan. ‘That they can’t treat their parents this way? Surely you can tell them that they must put their house in order if they want to work for you?’
‘Ah, now that is a good question,’ said Rasheed. ‘But it is a question for my esteemed father and grandfather, not for me,’ he added bitterly.
8.9
Maan lay down on his string-bed and stared upwards into what, in contrast with the previous night, was a cloudy sky. No solution appeared to him from either cloud or constellation as to how to get his letter written. Once again he thought of his father with annoyance.
Nearby footsteps made him lean on one elbow and look towards the source of the sound. Rasheed’s huge bear-like uncle and his companion the guppi were approaching.
‘Salaam aleikum.’
‘Wa aleikum salaam,’ replied Maan.
‘Everything going fine?’
‘Thanks to your prayers,’ replied Maan. ‘And you? Where are you coming from?’
‘I went to meet my friends in the other village,’ said Rasheed’s uncle. ‘And my friend came along. Now I am going inside the house, but I will have to leave my friend here with you. You don’t mind?’
‘Of course not,’ lied Maan, who wanted no company, least of all the guppi’s. But since he didn’t have a room, he didn’t have a door.
Rasheed’s uncle, noticing a number of charpoys scattered in the outer courtyard, picked up one under each huge arm and put them on their sides along the verandah wall. ‘It looks like rain,’ he explained. ‘And anyway, if they’re on their sides, the hens won’t come and make a mess of them. Where is Rasheed, by the way?’
‘Inside,’ said Maan.
Rasheed’s uncle belched, stroked his bristly beard of stubble, then went on in a friendly manner: ‘You know, he ran away from home and stayed with me a couple of times. He was always very sharp at school, very quarrelsome. It was the same when he went to Banaras for further studies. Religious studies! But since he’s been at Brahmpur, there’s been a change and he’s become a good deal more sober. Or perhaps it began in Banaras.’ He thought about the matter for a second. ‘It often happens this way,’ he said. ‘But he doesn’t see eye to eye with his people. And there’ll be trouble. He sees injustice everywhere; he doesn’t pause to understand things in their surroundings. You’re his friend—you should talk to him. Well, I’ll be going in.’
Left with the guppi, Maan did not know what to say, but he was not faced with the problem for long. The guppi, settling himself comfortably on the other charpoy, said:
‘What beauty are you dreaming of?’
Maan was both startled and slightly annoyed.
‘You know, I’ll show you Bombay,’ said the guppi. ‘You should come with me.’ At the word ‘Bombay’ excitement once again crept into his voice.
‘There are enough beauties there to satisfy all the lovesick young gentlemen of the universe. Tobacco?’
Maan shook his head.
‘I have a first-class house there,’ continued the guppi. ‘It has a fan. A view. There’s no heat like this. I’ll show you the Irani tea-shops. I’ll show you Chowpatty Beach. For four annas of roasted peanuts you can see the w
orld. Munch on them as you walk along and admire the view: the waves, the nymphs, the farishtas, all the beautiful women swimming so shamelessly in the ocean. You can join them. . . .’
Maan shut his eyes but could not shut his ears.
‘Actually, it was near Bombay that I saw an amazing event which I will never forget. I’ll share it with you if you want,’ the guppi continued. He paused for a second and, encountering no resistance, continued with a story which was entirely irrelevant to what had gone before.
‘Some Marathi dacoits got on to this train,’ said the guppi, beginning calmly enough, but becoming increasingly excited as the tale continued. ‘They said nothing, they just got on at a station. The train started to move, and then they stood up—all six of them, bloodthirsty villains—and threatened the people with knives. All the passengers were terrified, and handed their money and jewellery over. The six of them went through the entire compartment, and robbed everyone. Eventually they came to a Pathan.’
‘Pathan’, like ‘Bombay’, appeared to act as yeast to the guppi’s imagination. He breathed reverently and went on:
‘The Pathan—a broad, strong fellow—was travelling with his wife and children, and he had a trunk containing his possessions. Three of the villains were standing around him. “Well—” said one of them. “What are you waiting for?”
‘“Waiting?” said the Pathan, as if he did not understand what they were saying.
‘“Give me your money,” cried one of the Marathi dacoits.
‘“I won’t,” growled the Pathan.
‘“What?” yelled the bandit, unable to believe what he was hearing.
‘“You’ve robbed everyone,” said the Pathan, remaining seated while the gundas loured over him. “Why rob me as well?”
‘“No!” said the dacoits. “Give us your money. Quick.”
‘The Pathan saw that he couldn’t do anything immediately. He played for time. He started fumbling with his key and the lock of his trunk. He bent down as if to open it, judged distances—and suddenly—with one kick here—dharaaam!—he knocked one of them out—then—dhoooosh!—he bashed the other two bandits’ heads together, and flung them out of the train; one he actually lifted up by the neck and the crotch and flung out like a sack of wheat. The villain bounced on the next bogey before falling on to the ground.’