Jasoda

  Jasoda explained to the sub-inspector how the man had tried to rape her and how she had prevented him. The police took her seriously then and after two days located the surly man. They interrogated him and kept a tab on the man.

  ‘We have our ways of finding out the truth from the most hardened and uncooperative criminals,’ the sub-inspector told Jasoda, ‘but this man is innocent.’

  Jasoda shook her head and left. Every day, after she had delivered the potatoes, onions and chillies to the food stall, she went over Mumbai street by street, lane by lane, all the way to Virar on the Western Railway line and Ulhasnagar on the Central tracks, often getting lost herself. Not once did she think of giving up. She called out Sameer’s name on lonely roads as well as crowded ones. She never doubted that either that day or the next, maybe the next month or year, she was bound to receive a response from her son. She never admitted it even to herself that somewhere deep inside she feared Sameer had either been blinded or crippled and sent to beg.

  Himmat had two teachers now – Professor Suyog Gadgil, who dropped by once a week at the garden for algebra lessons, and Cawas Batliwala, for the rest of the subjects. The renowned mathematician had an odd way of teaching, if at all you could call it that. Most of the time he sat quietly next to Himmat and let him figure out the problem. At the most he would drop a hint or two to help Himmat along.

  ‘How’s Himmat doing?’ Cawas Batliwala asked Professor Suyog Gadgil after eight months. ‘Does he have a head for the subject?’

  ‘The boy has an appetite for maths. He keeps nibbling and gnawing at a problem all by himself and has staying power, however tough the going might be. That’s what matters. The question is, does he have a teacher who can make him think things through so that he can solve any kind of equation on his own?’

  Batliwala wasn’t quite sure what Suyog Gadgil was trying to tell him but the fact that he turned up every week was encouraging. And he was right about Himmat’s appetite. He needed to be fed all the time, whether it was history, physiology, geography, physics, maths or English storybooks.

  Three weeks later when Himmat turned up for class, he seemed disoriented and he had sores on his arms with maggots crawling over them. Cawas Batliwala felt his forehead and his hand got singed. Himmat was admitted to hospital and a week later it became clear that the open sores and the high fever were the least of his problems. The boy had a tapeworm that had slithered under his cranium.

  Batliwala had a case of an acute conscience. Why had he not stopped the boy from scavenging in the filthy litter bins a long time back? He now took charge of Himmat and talked to the doctors every day. The boy’s grandmother kept watch over the boy during the day and Jasoda joined her in the afternoon. Every evening, Batliwala swore that he would tell Jasoda that the doctors did not hold out much hope but one look at her and he couldn’t gather enough courage to speak the truth. The boy was delirious and it was touch and go for days. It was six weeks before Himmat was allowed to go home.

  That year the monsoons played hooky and seven people died fighting over a bucket of water in the city. The garden next to Jasoda’s pavement had not been watered for three weeks. Many of the super-rich as well as the migrant labourers and their families were already leaving and Jasoda had to decide in the next few days whether she and her family would have to move again to some other place. Then on the ninth of September, the skies opened and stayed open for five days. The pavement where Jasoda had her home went under. In the previous three years, when the rains had flooded the roads, Jasoda and her family had tagged along with Ratna’s husband, a worker at the high-rise that was under construction, and taken shelter on one of the top floors.

  This year things were different. The earlier building was fully occupied now. For two nights running, Jasoda and her extended family stood under the awning of an apartment building and got soaked. On the third night, she managed to coax the security guard to allow her and her brood to sleep in the passage outside an empty flat on the second floor. He agreed for a hefty fee and on the condition that they would leave the premises by five-thirty in the morning. As luck would have it, the guard himself dozed off and it was only at ten past seven that he woke up in a panic and tried to hustle them out of the building. That was difficult because the old lady was past getting up. She had passed away in her sleep.

  Jasoda and her mother-in-law had eyed each other with suspicion, if not hostility, in all the years in Kantagiri. Oddly enough, it was Mumbai, the city without a conscience or a thought for others, that had changed their relationship. They had become a team in the years they had spent on the pavement. Now the old lady was gone and the least Jasoda could do was to give her a decent cremation. But forget money for the wood pyre, there was no one willing to even take her to the burning ghats. Himmat had not worked for over two months and was now without a job. Whatever little Jasoda earned went to feed the family. All day long, the grandmother lay covered in a dirty sheet in a corner of the garden. Around midnight, the old lady had become hard as the rocks facing the sea and the stench from her was unbearable. Ratna’s husband and three other men carried her to St Steven’s Church next to the traffic lights and left her on the steps. Jasoda bent down and asked her mother-in-law for forgiveness but pleaded that she had no alternative but to leave her in the care of the Christian God who, for reasons beyond her, had been nailed to a cross. Hopefully, his priests would take good care of her.

  ‘I need to have a word with you, Himmat.’

  The boy was in the middle of his first lesson with Cawas Sir after his near-fatal illness when his employer called out to him. Himmat excused himself and walked over to Plastick.

  ‘Where the fuck were you all these days? You think you can ditch me and disappear, causing me enormous losses? Understand this, gandu, I intend to recover every rupee you owe me. And with interest.’

  ‘But my brother Pawan informed you that I was admitted to the hospital.’

  ‘Yes, sure. I have heard that “sick” story just about a million and a half times to believe that crap. Report to work tomorrow. Remember that you don’t get paid till…’

  ‘He’s not going to work for you any more,’ Batliwala interrupted the garbage-boss.

  ‘Abbe bhosadike, you keep out of this. This is between Himmat and me.’

  ‘Himmat is my ward.’

  ‘Sure, that’s why you put him to work.’

  ‘I was wrong. I should have stopped him from working for you a long time ago.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t. And he owes me money.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. He nearly lost his life because you didn’t even give him gloves to protect him.’

  ‘Nonsense. Get back to work tomorrow, Himmat, or else…’

  ‘There’s no “or else”. Don’t you dare threaten the boy because if you try anything funny, you will have to deal with me. Here’s my card. I am a lawyer and senior partner in Batliwala and Cooper.’

  A week later, Himmat had two jobs. At eight in the morning he went to Batliwala Sir’s flat on the top floor of an old building close to the garden that looked out to the sea. He swept and swabbed the place and cleaned the toilet. The lawyer taught him how to use the washing machine and the dryer, and he learnt how to iron clothes. At 9.45 the driver took Himmat and his boss down to Batliwala and Cooper. One of Batliwala Sir’s assistants taught the young acolyte to file papers and run errands for the company. But as Batliwala pointed out, the main purpose of going to the office with the boss was to learn how to operate a computer and watch all that was going on in the office.

  ‘You’re a fast learner and you will pick up what the practice of law is about. Who knows you might end up a judge in the Supreme Court. But you can’t become a lawyer or engineer or get a good job without a university degree. And you can’t get into any university without a school-leaving certificate. So I’m enrolling you in an evening school. Suyog and I will of course continue your private tuitions but only on the weekends.’

  Unlike the old days in K
antagiri, Himmat was reluctant to go to school. Thanks to Gadgil and Batliwala, he was way ahead of the class and was admitted directly to the ninth grade. Often, he was ahead of the teachers too. But there were some benefits. Within a matter of weeks, he was solving equations and doing homework for a fee for students who were much older than him. And soon he was giving tuitions to some of them.

  It was past midnight when Pawan saw a man cross the street in front of their pavement. It was dark and he couldn’t see what the man was doing there. And then the intruder struck a match and everything was clear. Himmat’s former employer, Plastick, threw the match into the litter bin in which Jasoda kept her family’s clothes and another into the bin in which she stored the grain and foodstuff. The plastic bins caught fire and the flames rose high and lit up the people asleep on the pavement, the trees in the garden along with its hedge and the steel fencing. Pawan raised an alarm and managed to nab the culprit.

  Jasoda was happy that her second son was still around and not altogether beyond redemption but she feared that someday he too would disappear the way Sameer had. The thought of Sameer kept her awake most nights. She was willing to eat fire and iron nails just to get one glimpse of him. Had God showed up in person, she would have caught him by the collar and blinded him unless he showed her where her son was and gave him back to her.

  Jasoda explained to each member of her family that they would have to make do with the pair of clothes they were wearing till she and Himmat had collected some extra money.

  Every few minutes, Parbat Singh asked for Raat Rani. His words were more whistle than sense but Sangram Singh got the drift. ‘Where is Raat Rani? What have you done to her? Where have you hidden her? I know you. You found out that she knew it was you who sent my wheelchair all the way down to the bottom of the stairs. I bet you wanted to kill me.’

  ‘Stop. I said stop. You got that wrong. What would I do with you dead? Now shut up. I’ve got lots of work to do.’

  ‘Give me back my Raat Rani or I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Good idea. But before you do that, ask yourself who’ll feed you then? You want to know the truth? She’s gone. She didn’t want to be with a cripple. She’s never going to come back.’

  ‘You’re lying. May you die a pig’s death.’

  The Notary Public came over from Sharana to witness His Highness signing over the power of attorney to Sangram Singh in case he was out of town or unable to sign any documents regarding his estate due to ill-health or any other unforeseen circumstances. Before the event, prayers were conducted to urge the gods to give Parbat Singhji a long, healthy and fruitful life. H.H. sat magisterially on his throne, his bottle-green brocade sherwani and silk shalwar concealing his injured right leg that was never going to recover and the left one that had a heavy limp since it was a few centimetres short. His neck was a little askew and, if you looked closely, you would see that his right hand was twisted oddly. Everything was going smoothly. Tea was served along with the traditional mithai offered first to the gods and then to the guests. It was time for H.H. to sign the papers, following which the Notary Public would witness the document. The cheque which was to be handed over to him had already been prepared and kept on a silver thali.

  During the dress rehearsal, everything had been worked out to the last detail and Parbat Singh had cooperated in exemplary fashion. Unfortunately, His Highness seemed to have had a change of heart at the last minute, for now he threw the mother of all tantrums. His left hand flung the inkwell at the Notary Public and blinded him with the black ink. All the while, he kept up a non-stop barrage of expletives and accusations of which the visitor couldn’t make head or tail. He stood on his left leg while hanging on to his chair. He dropped the legal papers down on the floor, undid his shalwar string and peed on the documents. Howsoever grudgingly, Sangram Singh had to admit that the Prince had ambushed him. He had pulled out an ace and outsmarted him. He had no idea when, or, if at all, he could coax the Notary Public to visit again.

  There was only one way to bring the proverbial horse to the water and make sure he drank it. Even in this back of beyond, there was nothing more persuasive than crisp, fresh notes with the picture of the Father of the Nation on them to coax the Notary that another trip to the Palace was worth it. There were no dress rehearsals this time. Just a quick heart-to-heart talk with H.H. a few minutes before the signing of the new will.

  ‘Okay, I’ve got to give the devil his due. You were good, bloody good the last time.’

  H.H. smiled archly and cackled. ‘Wasn’t I? Just tells you, you can never underestimate Parbat Singh. He will always have a trick or two up his sleeve.’

  ‘Yes, you are right. Only thing is, one lives and learns.’ Sangram Singh took out an artist’s paintbrush with a thin handle from his pocket and held it in front of the Prince. ‘Recognize this?’

  ‘Sure, what’s the big deal? It’s an overused paintbrush, that’s all.’

  ‘A trifle more than that, I would say. It’s a pain-brush.’ Sangram Singh slipped behind H.H. and plugged the rear end of the brush between two of his damaged lumbar vertebrae. Only when Parbat Singh was not just done with screaming but had fainted, was the paintbrush pulled out.

  ‘Let’s get some things straight,’ Sangram Singh told His Highness when he regained consciousness. ‘You behave yourself and sign the will and, who knows, you may find Raat Rani in your bed within a week.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Parbat Singh looked suspiciously at his former toady. ‘Let me see her first and then I will decide.’

  ‘No, you don’t. You should know by now that I take the decisions here.’ The brush was back between the two vertebrae.

  ‘I get the message,’ H.H. said breathlessly. ‘I’ll sign anything just so long as I can get Raat Rani back.’

  This time around too when the Notary came over, Sangram Singh was his usual obsequious self. The only difference was that he would not leave the Prince’s side and his right hand seemed to be supporting the master in the back. Even the Notary was forced to admit that H.H. was exceptionally cooperative and of his own free will had signed his last will and testament where he spelt out that after his demise, all his belongings including the Alakhnanda Palace would pass on to his most faithful friend and advisor, Shri Sangram Singh.

  Jasoda may have thought of going back to Kantagiri every so often but for her children Mumbai had become home. Himmat had some memories of his birthplace but he preferred not to recall them. For Pawan, the big metropolis on the west coast of the country was the beginning and the end of the world. Over the years, every once in a while, Jasoda would meet someone, or a whole family, from her part of the world and the news would always be the same. No news. There were no stragglers left and no one was foolish enough to return to the land of the dead. As a matter of fact, even Kajuria, apparently, had fallen on hard days. The former King and his family were on a skiing holiday near Davos in Switzerland two years ago when they were caught in an avalanche and their bodies were never found. Princess Antaradevi, after Umaid Singh had disappeared, had been married off to a widower-Princeling from the principality of Kailashnagar. The Prince had come back home drunk one night to find a man holding the Princess’s hand as she lay in bed. He proceeded to stab her thirty-one times even as the man kept telling him that he was the family doctor and had been called because the Princess was pregnant and had been throwing up all evening.

  More than a year later, Jasoda ran into some people who had different tales to tell about Kantagiri. They had not been back themselves but had met some folks who had made the journey and returned with rather fantastic accounts of the changes taking place there. No, they didn’t look like the kind who would spin a story but everybody knew that Paar was ‘mirage’ country and it was often impossible to draw the line between reality and illusion. Or perhaps the more apt word for the latter was delusion. The rumour was that some big foreign companies had calculated that there were vast reserves of something called kala sona in the sea some thirty-seven ki
lometres to the west of Kantagiri and so the economy of the place was steadily limping back.

  It seemed that on any ordinary day you could see all kinds of people from other parts of the country walking around busily surveying and mapping the area not merely surrounding Kantagiri but way beyond it to where the sea was. Every now and then a big car with white men and even an occasional white woman would rush past, leaving behind clouds of dust and sand. There was talk of major investments in the offing, and a fair amount of construction was taking place. Twenty minutes from the Alakhnanda Palace, His Highness was putting up a four-star hotel which would later be converted into a five-star facility with a swimming pool. A swimming pool, really? The next thing you would hear, the man reporting this news said, was that heaven was being transferred to Kantagiri.

  Over the next two years, Jasoda heard more and more bizarre stories. Some kind of deal had been forged with Kajuria, which permitted Kantagiri to access the water from its lake. It was not just the water that was coming from Kajuria, the denizens of the place too were migrating to Kantagiri. And now the Bank of Baroda had reopened its branch office there. Kala sona, it turned out, was oil from which kerosene and petroleum were extracted. Apparently, the whole world wanted kala sona and that’s why Kantagiri was now going to be rich and famous.