Just then, Chetan saw a boy come from the gali across the way, carrying a metal rod, with which he slapped Debu’s thigh twice in quick succession.
Debu didn’t notice it any more than a man would notice a fly alighting on his leg. When the boy raised the metal rod for the third time and was about to hit him on the head, Chetan, who had come to make peace, got angry—‘There’s only one of Debu and so many of them, and they’ve brought a metal rod against him,’ he said to himself, and he leapt up and grabbed it from the boy’s hand in one shake and hit him hard across the lower back with it.
Before the boy could turn and jump on Chetan, Parasaram, Shiv Shankar, Hansa of the Jhamans, his brother Mansa, and Badda all arrived and saw Chetan swimming in a sea of feet and fists. Shiv Shankar went in first and pinned back the arms of the boy fighting Chetan.
As soon as he had been kicked and punched, the boy bent over; Debu let go of him and turned to confront them. Debu leapt up as they all brawled, kicked the boy lying down hard in the buttocks, and went and grabbed the rod from Chetan’s hand, smashed two of them in the head and sent the rest scurrying with a beating.
*
The other time he knocked out Billa himself.
*
What happened was that during the Matric, Chetan used to visit the home of a boy from Bazaar Charat Singh. He was actually a couple of classes behind him, but he was a scout in Chetan’s group, and they would come home from scouting together. Chetan would drop him off at his house, then come home through Imam Nasiruddin and Bara Bazaar, crossing Chhati Gali. This friend of Chetan’s was rather handsome. Well, he wasn’t so much handsome as he was delicate. He was a classmate of Billa’s. Although Billa had no interest in scouting whatsoever, for a few days, he’d been playing with his friends outside on the street or on the police line after school, and when Chetan and his friend were leaving school after scouting, he’d tag along behind them and hover about outside the other boy’s house all evening. One day, when they arrived in Chowk Mendruan, Billa cracked a dirty joke about him. When Chetan tried to reason with him, he elbowed him out of the way and took off.
Chetan had left his friend and was walking home angrily when he ran into Debu. Debu had a length of wire bunched up in his hand and was singing lustily, albeit in a fairly crass voice:
Oh you girl, lovely as Lakshmi
I’ll only drink water from your hands!
‘Hello there, what’s up, Bhapa ji!’ Coming near Chetan he fondly slapped his hand on his shoulder.
Since Chetan was two years older than him, Debu called him ‘Bhapa ji’, or ‘big brother’, whenever he was in a good mood.
And anyway, their fathers were also thick as thieves. Chetan called Debu’s father ‘Chacha ji’ or ‘uncle’, and Debu called Pandit Shadiram ‘Chacha ji’ as well, and according to Pandit ji, the two were closer than a pair of brothers.
‘Yaar, your friend is totally harassing us,’ Chetan said suddenly, on finding him in a good mood.
‘Who’s harassing you, his mother’s— . . .’ Debu let slip a curse and twirled his bunch of wire around.
Then Chetan told him what Billa had done, and said, ‘Even with you around, your friend is disrespecting your elder brother; it’s not an insult to me, it’s an insult to you!’
‘Let’s go, then!’ cried Debu, cursing Billa fulsomely.
Chetan turned back and retraced his steps. Billa was wandering about Bazaar Charat Singh. They went over to him, and Debu, without saying a word, smacked him hard and, motioning towards Chetan, asked, ‘Why did you shove this bhapa of mine?’
Billa had no idea what was going on. He thought Debu was joking, so he reeled off a few ‘extremely sweet words’ in the service of that ‘bhapa’.
But when, at this, Debu hauled off and socked him in the nose, and blood sprayed from it, Billa pinned Debu down.
Although Debu went to the akhara regularly and did push-ups and sit-ups and was also extremely courageous, Billa was sturdier than him, and knew better wrestling manoeuvres. In just five minutes he had Debu pinned beneath him.
By this point, quite a crowd had gathered. But no one had the courage to break it up. Then, when Billa grabbed him by the neck and started ruthlessly bashing his head against the ground, a brick somehow made its way into Debu’s hand. Either an onlooker had given it to him or he’d just managed to reach for it himself. Though he was still pinned to the ground, he managed to smack the brick against Billa’s head. Seeing both of them covered in blood, people broke them apart.
Both of them were swearing horribly and saying that they meant to kill one another but Chetan, imagining the unfortunate outcome of such a fight, spent a good deal of time reasoning with them and calming them down, and managed to cajole them into shaking hands. Billa acknowledged Chetan as Debu’s elder brother and apologized, and Debu in turn apologized to Billa, and the two of them, heads busted, set off arm in arm to get bandaged up by Hakim Dina Nath in Papadiyan Bazaar, with Chetan in tow.
17
Chetan smiled slightly to himself as he recollected that incident in Bazaar Charat Singh. The Khalsa Hotel was at the crossroads, to the left. As Chetan arrived in front of the hotel, arm in arm with Hunar Sahib, he wondered whether or not he should part with the group.
‘What are you up to, Bhapa ji?’ asked Debu on seeing them standing in front of the hotel. He held out a hand to greet them.
Chetan shook his hand and told him that he’d gone to Rainak Bazaar, then run into Hunar Sahib, so he’d come over here with him. He let go of Debu’s hand and introduced them to one another. ‘This is one of the premier poets, not just of the Doab, but of the entire region, and his memory is so amazing that he remembers not just his own work, but the entire oeuvres of other poets as well,’ he said, and of Debu, he remarked that he was like a little brother to him—the elder son of Chacha Pandit Daulat Ram, the astrologer, and that he was amazingly fearless.
Although Debu’s squinty eye shone on hearing his praises sung, and Hunar Sahib beamed, Chetan chuckled to himself at the slight touch of irony in his praise (which hinted at the reality of the special qualities of each).
Debu told Hunar Sahib that he’d seen him before and had even heard his couplets in a poetry gathering. He nodded and smiled and held out his hand to shake Hunar Sahib’s, at which Hunar Sahib grinned and, bowing slightly, pressed Debu’s hand warmly between his own.
Then Debu introduced his acquaintances, and Hunar Sahib his, at which Billa came forward and, smacking Nishtar hard on the shoulder, he asked Hunar Sahib, ‘Since when have you made this squint-eye your pupil? Has he stopped keeping Rehmat’s bed warm?’
At this, all of them laughed as though Billa had made a wonderfully clever joke. Nishtar glared at Billa with rage through his drooping eye, but at that same moment, Billa filled his lungs with a deep breath and stuck out his broad chest. Nishtar looked down.
There was an enormous crowd at the Khalsa Hotel (it wasn’t really a hotel, nor was it a restaurant; it was just a popular dhaba—a roadside eatery—but you could get wonderful tandoori parathas there, and pork, mutton, keema, koftas, the Mutter Paneer Special Dish and yogurt lassi). There were a handful of other dhabas of this type, but the Khalsa Hotel was known for its expertise and the prices were reasonable. Hunar Sahib peered into the large room, where the customers were stuck together at the dirty benches and tables despite the heat and humidity. The charpoys arranged beneath the tree outside were also packed: there sat Jats, kameezes unbuttoned, broad chests dripping with sweat, fanning themselves with the tails of their turbans; youths dressed in undershirts and tahmads; and law babus, wearing suits despite the heat . . . He turned to Chetan and said helplessly, ‘There’s nowhere to sit!’
‘Will you take something to eat?’ asked Debu, suddenly coming forward. ‘Here you go, we’ll make some space right away.’
He cast a glance over the charpoys—on two were seated Sikh Jats, on one were two or three babus from the court, and on the fourth, some youths—he went
over to the youths and demanded that they clear off.
Debu spoke in a rather harsh, authoritative tone, such that two of them immediately stood up, but the youth in the middle, who was comparatively stronger than the other two, and who wore only an open kameez and tahmad, stayed seated as though no such thing had been said to him.
‘Please, take a seat!’ urged Debu to Hunar Sahib, paying no attention to the seated youth.
But before any of them could come forward, the seated youth grabbed the arm of one of his friends and indicated that he should sit back down.
His friend was now half standing, half sitting, when Debu stepped forward, grabbed him by the arm and turned him around.
‘I told you to clear out, but now you’re sitting down again,’ he said.
Now the seated youth stood up, raised his shoulders slightly, stuck out his neck, and took a few steps forward. He rolled up his sleeves and glared at Debu, enraged.
‘Why aren’t you letting us sit here?’
‘This charpoy is reserved.’
‘Who’s it reserved for?’
‘For this baap of yours,’ Debu motioned towards Hunar Sahib.
And a ringing slap landed on Debu’s cheek. Before anyone could say anything, Debu leapt forward, as was his wont, shouting a horrifying curse like a slogan in the air, and dived at the youth, grabbing him by both ankles and lifting him up. The next moment, the boy was in the air and then flat on his back, with Debu sitting on his chest.
‘Oh, oh,’ said Hunar Sahib. He snapped the end of his homespun dhoti and stepped forward to free the boy, but Billa, without saying a word, put out his arm and motioned for him to go and sit back down on the charpoy.
When the boy for whose sake the fight had occurred came forward to free his pinned comrade, Billa stopped him as well, as if to say, ‘If you have to fight, then fight me. It’s an even match, just let it happen.’
All the other charpoys emptied out in the blink of an eye. The people eating inside, the people walking by—everyone gathered round. The lower middle classes, whether due to their difficult life struggles, severe unemployment, laziness or boredom, will gather to watch any spectacle in a heartbeat . . . and Billa and Jagna didn’t allow anyone to break it up.
But the boy didn’t stay down long. He grabbed one of Debu’s arms, pressed it down and started to twist it in such a way that despite pushing down on him with all his might, Debu fell over. Now the excitement of the crowd knew no bounds.
‘Great! Great!’
‘Pin him!’
‘Spin him like a top!’
Some of the onlookers praised him; some began egging Debu on and suggesting manoeuvres.
‘Get him in a leg hold!’
‘No, get his neck between your legs, trap him and turn him!’
And Debu did throw him: clamping his neck between his legs, he twisted around and was on top again.
The spectators were beside themselves with glee.
‘Amazing! Bhai, amazing!’
‘He knows all the moves, bhai, how did he get out from under? He must have taken a beating at the hands of a master.’
Perhaps that youth not only knew better moves than Debu, but was also stronger. He got out from under Debu and came up again, and this time, despite the crowd going wild and egging Debu on, he didn’t let him get up. He began to press him into the ground.
Just then, a police officer noticed the crowd that was growing by the minute and entered the crossroads. Billa grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled the two of them apart (he didn’t care especially about the officer but Debu was getting beaten).
‘An officer is coming,’ he said.
Debu got up and brushed the dirt from his sweaty clothing (though it couldn’t be brushed off without drying first). He told Billa sadly that he’d broken it up for no reason; he was about to make that guy see stars in just one move.
‘That’s fine, but do you want to go and sit down now or make him see stars?’
Debu walked over to the charpoy. Nishtar and Ranvir had sat down on it and Hunar Sahib was about to sit down as well, when that same youth returned and said, ‘This charpoy’s ours, please get up!’
This time, Billa stepped forward. ‘Go on, go sit somewhere else. Why are you quarrelling? This is our guest, a famous poet.’
‘If he’s a famous poet, then bring a charpoy from home. Whether he’s a poet or the baap of a poet, he can’t have this charpoy. We were sitting here first.’
Billa replied slowly, suppressing his anger as he emphasized each word, ‘Oh, son of a wrestler, what are you getting so worked up about?’ (Seeing him glancing over at the policeman and starting to roll up his sleeves, he took it even further.) ‘Take a look at that policeman. Police don’t scare easy. Consider this charpoy and this hotel ours, not your father’s.’
The youth was about to haul off and punch him, but Billa stepped forward, picked him up and threw him on the ground, then stood by silently, hands on his hips.
The youth got up as soon as he fell, and leapt upon Billa like a tiger. Billa grabbed him by one arm and one leg and threw him even farther and then went and stood quietly near his head.
When the youth stood up again, practically insane with rage, Billa threw him even farther.
Secretly, Chetan felt quite angry with Debu and Billa. First, they’d committed theft, then made a display of their arrogance. If the other fellow had the charpoy first, why should he leave it? All his sympathy was with the young man. He was sure that if they’d cajoled him, told him that these poet types had come from out of town, they’re guests, we need space for them, he’d certainly have given it up. It seemed entirely unjust for Hunar Sahib or himself to sit on the charpoy. He got up and went over to the youth.
The youth had sat up on the ground, but he hadn’t yet stood, and was currently trying to decide whether he should get up and jump on Billa again or just go away. Billa was much stronger than him. Chetan went over and said to him, ‘Bhai, do take your charpoy back. There’s no need to fight over such a small matter! We’ll eat in a little while.’
Pleased by Billa’s bravery, a Sikh Jat, fanning himself with the hem of his tahmad, called out, ‘Basshaho, come over. We’re done eating. Seat your guests over here.’
And he stood up with his comrades.
But the youth refused to accept sitting elsewhere after getting beaten. ‘No, no, sir, you go sit there,’ he said to Chetan as he stood up. ‘I’ll deal with this Billa some other time.’
And he turned his back and went off to another dhaba. His friends went to join him, following at a slight distance. Chetan returned to find that Hunar Sahib had dragged the Jat’s charpoy over as well and was sitting and fanning himself with the end of his dhoti, feet up.
Just then, Billa said to the hotel proprietor, ‘Look, Sardar ji, we have guests, please serve us something special.’
‘Don’t you worry, Basshaho,’ said the proprietor, pulling a cooked roti from the tandoor with an iron skewer and placing it in the basket. ‘We’ll serve you first-class eats.’
18
Nishtar and Ranvir very grandly ordered pork, gurde-kapoore and tandoori parathas. Hunar Sahib had quit eating meat when he’d started following Gandhi, so he ordered the Mutter Paneer Special Dish and the ‘free dal’ with two paisas’ worth of spices sautéed in pure ghee thrown in. When he was giving the order, he said the phrase ‘free dal’ in a particular way, and then looked over at his companions and laughed. He was apparently hinting at a story about such free dal that was quite famous in Jalandhar. Chetan, whenever he ate at a dhaba, also had to chuckle when he thought of it.
The story goes like this: a Jat once came to Jalandhar from the far-off countryside in connection with a court case. When he got off the train, he felt extremely hungry. Right across from the inn was a dhaba. The dhaba owner was popping rotis into the tandoor one after another.
‘Tell me, brother, how much for the rotis?’ asked the Jat.
‘Two for a paisa.’
‘And the dal?’
‘Dal is free!’
‘Okay, then first just fill a bowl with dal for me!’ the Jat had said, holding out his hands impatiently.
*
For just a second, it occurred to Chetan that he too should simply ask for a bowl full of free dal, just like the Jat. On the other hand, a dhaba owner could laugh at what the Jat had said, but what if he said something sarcastic when he saw an educated person like Chetan purposefully asking for such a thing? And what if he didn’t understand the joke, and just filled a bowl with dal and handed it to him? What would he do with so much chana or urad dal and nothing to eat it with? If he went ahead and ate it, he’d have diarrhoea for a month . . . and he laughed to himself.
Ranvir had ordered a plate of pork for Chetan too, and next he wanted to order roghan josh, but Chetan stopped him and told him to get what he wanted for himself. ‘I’m not getting pork,’ he added and, after thinking a moment, he ordered a plate of mutter paneer and an order of dal with spice fried in ghee.
Chetan had never tasted pork. He did want to taste it, but the strange thing was that just imagining pork he thought of beef and his desire died out . . . At the thought of beef, he remembered Jamuna, the family cow that Chetan had always regarded with reverence and love in childhood. She was tall, pure white and young, but she didn’t butt. She was extremely well bred. Ma had raised her like her own daughter. Although she referred to her as ‘Mother Cow’, she treated her with more affection than reverence. She spent as much time as she had to spare after doing the housework in caring for the cow. She’d prepare her feed by mixing chickpeas, cottonseed, wheat husks and who knows what else. She was absolutely attentive to her hunger and thirst. Because of this there was always plenty of milk, yogurt, butter, ghee and lassi in the house—it’s a good thing, after all, that eating the flesh of a cow is forbidden. Would anyone eat the flesh of his mother or sister? And a shiver would run down his spine just at the thought . . .
In the City a Mirror Wandering Page 18
