This Could Have Become Ramayan Chamar's Tale

by Subimal Misra

  The writer … punjabi-pajama bought at a discount sale … a special price for Gandhiji’s birthday, it had cost Rs 38.75, I remember, after the 30 per cent rebate. A pair of second-hand binoculars in hand, he had gotten from somewhere … a shoe-polish box slung on his neck … he stands on the left, left of everyone.

  In order to survive in the capitalist system, artists and litterateurs have to be amicable sometimes and sometimes they need to wrestle … he stands on the left side, left of everyone … I do not want my writing to be converted into capital, or be capable of being digested by the intestines of middle-class babus. I want to make my writing into a weapon against this repression-based civilization.

  Just as the speech is coming to an end, Phantom comes rushing out of the pages of Indrajal comics, his fists ready for action, he pushes and fells his foe. The police too find a bucket full of bomb-making chemicals. Just then, mingling among the people, he begins to polish shoes; every now and then, he looks through the binoculars to see whether the heels are cracked or not, and how much. The bomb-making business reaches right up to the village.

  A pencil-knife in hand, the man comes face to face with a band of half-wild, half-urban animals.4

  He will be awakened again after eleven, twenty-two or thirty-three years.

  12:45 in the afternoon

  That day, at around a quarter to one in the afternoon, a lorry carrying scrap iron overturned and fell off the Howrah bridge, killing six labourers. Four persons popped it at the accident site itself, and two were admitted to the hospital. At that time, on that day, the democratic voting-festival in West Bengal was happening with gusto. The leftists were getting six out of ten votes. Telephoning Lalbazar to ascertain the names and particulars of the men who were crushed to death, the busy police officer had reacted testily: ‘It is not my duty to find out about all these coolies and labourers, I have other very important work to do – don’t you know, today is election day – phone the hospital!’ The sweet aroma of his 555 cigarette wafted even through the phone, a very pleasant aroma.

  One of the distinctive features of capitalist art and literature is to push contemporaneity as far away as possible, and to make it seem as if all that is written is permanent – an eternal truth for all time that they alone have discovered, suitable for all classes of people.5

  5:40 in the evening

  Walking along, he reached the Ganga riverbank that evening. Many boats were crowded together at the riverbank. The scene suddenly appeared in his sight. A small coal-stove on the floorboards of a boat. Rice boiling-bubbling in a clay pot. The lid on the pot rattled. He saw it from afar. The aroma of cooking reached his nose – rice being cooked. Sitting on the prow, the boatman, clad in a checked lungi, puffed on a hookah. Another person sat near the awning, her ghomta drawn over her head. A deep-red sari. A pair of artistic earrings gleaming. Glass bangles on the wrist. Alta glowing on the feet. Putting down the hookah, the boatman advanced with small steps: ‘Wife, won’t you get up?’ In answer to the soft-voiced query, her haughty reply was heard: ‘I won’t get up.’

  He didn’t stand there for long. On the way back, the strap of his slipper tore. Someone had stepped on it from behind.

  7:10 in the evening

  That same evening, he went to a relative’s house, meaning, to the house of a distantly-related uncle in the Shyambazar locality, Mohun Bagan Row. The uncle had recently retired from a bank and his blood pressure had suddenly shot up. Although he was long planning to visit this uncle, he hadn’t gotten around to doing so. He bought a packet of lozenges from the street corner for the children, and as he went to give it to the five-year-old girl of the house, he heard: ‘But I don’t eat anything other than Cadbury’s.’ On the television in the house right then, a terrific action scene from a Hindi film. Everyone was watching, rapt.

  12:15 at night

  [DIARY EXTRACT]

  The servant wears plastic slippers. He discerns that the sound of this footwear is different from that of leather shoes, quite different.

  I say, does the soul ever have something like breathing difficulty? That guy, Bergman, how superbly, in his film Winter Light, he utters – ‘God’s silence.’ That was in the year 1961. The communist party had not yet split then.

  To the side of the path in front of Nanibala’s house, a reddish cow is tethered. Every now and then, she shakes her horns, chews grass, licks the calf, and sometimes she wants to raise her head and gaze at the road with woeful eyes. Our dream, a united and prosperous India.

  This was all he had been able to write that day, the day of the elections. A day’s writing.

  Gorment folk

  Full of shame and hatred, Parulbala did not even turn to look in the direction of the accused’s cell. In reply to the judge’s repeated questioning, she somehow managed to say that, yes, four persons had raped her, but none of those accused. The sessions judge was stunned on hearing this. He looked once in the direction of thirteen-year-old Parulbala, then in the direction of the public prosecutor, and finally in the direction of the witnesses. Parulbala’s mother was among the witnesses, as were her father and brothers. All of them had testified that the accused were without blame, as if they only wished for their release.

  The case had been filed three years ago, the charge was of rape. The incident had taken place in a jute field in Barasat. The rapists numbered four. Four of them, one after another … all night long. Parulbala stood in the witness stand, her face hostile. She somehow dealt with the judge’s questions, saying yes and no. Tears flowed from her eyes.

  The judge said to the public prosecutor: ‘Can you tell me what’s going on?’ The lawyer informed him in whispers: ‘These rogues are all seasoned criminals. The victim and her family have been threatened with death if they speak the truth. They have sealed their lips in fear.’ Hearing the reply, the judge scratched his balding pate helplessly: ‘What’s the value of the court if a sense of security can’t be instilled among ordinary citizens? The court can understand who the real offenders are, they can also be seen in front of our eyes, but they can’t be punished! The role of the law is becoming akin to that of a mute spectator. This can’t be tolerated!’

  He exclaimed out aloud:

  ‘Although we are a free nation, the hand of law is terribly weak.

  He can see the offenders,

  and yet he cannot apprehend them.

  It only creates more fear and anxiety in the minds of the witnesses.

  It’s my misfortune that

  although I know

  that the heinous crime of destroying this young girl’s chastity has been committed

  the accused have to be let go…

  Shall I bite off my thumb in rage?’

  In his summing up, he unequivocally pointed to the failure of the government and the framers of the law for being unable to provide any assistance. The powers that be in this sovereign republic had to think immediately about how justice could be obtained so that citizens could feel secure. Or else, a day would come, and it would come soon – the structure had already begun to wobble – when throughout the country, such rogues, sheltered by the political dadas, scissors

  Abdul Momin stepped down from the high court building. Obstinate as a pig. He constantly clenched and unclenched his hands. He owned three bighas and seven katthas of land in all. Five years ago, the nephew of an influential leader forcibly registered himself as a sharecropper on Momin’s land. In an age when supporting evidence and witnesses could be had simply by feeding them a belly-full of meat and rice, obviously, it did not take very long to become a sharecropper on the land of the owner of three bighas and seven katthas of land. Momin said: ‘The whole fucking world is fraudulent. The police station does nothing. Just the opposite actually, it was the police who had registered the complaint of disturbing the peace. The matter went to court but there was no evidence as such. The magistrate understood and castigated the officer-in-charge for filing a false case. But nothing came of that either. I knew nothing wou
ld happen, the judges and magistrates belong to the same class as these shoe-wearing bhadralok. I had already mortgaged the plough and bullocks, so now I mortgaged my homestead and went to the high court. It was the first time in my life that I saw the high court. The national flag flutters on top of the tall steeple. We got a decree here too, but the fucking local police act as if they’ve seen nothing even after reading the court order, as if they’ve heard nothing even after hearing everything. They’ve been kept well-fed and gratified. Got money too. Someone gave me the idea, so I wrote a letter to the leader of the ruling party, Namboodripad. He forwarded my appeal to the chief minister of West Bengal. The chief minister sent it to the secretary. The secretary sent it to the panchayat. The panchayat pradhan wrote, his pen rustling over the sheet of paper: “I am the elected panchayat pradhan, a resident of Habibpur, under Gogacha police station. With my own eyes, I have seen Abdul Momin and his brothers install a shallow tube-well and farm the land with their own hands. Some local influential persons, with the help of criminals, wish to forcibly push him off his land. Sadly, I belong to the party behind the matter.” Folding this certificate carefully and thrusting it in my hand, he said: “Momin-bhai, I know everything, I understand everything – but what can I do? – it’s very clear who the opponents are, anti-socials – one has to save one’s life first, isn’t it? – I have a wife and a family.”’

  ‘I lived near the Dum Dum airport. I’ve never seen my father in my life, Mother’s simply Mother – what other name can a mother have. Yes, I had a brother, he was tiny, didn’t get much to eat, fought with dogs for food from the garbage pile. One day, he was bitten on his face, his nose and face swelled up bad and he died after three days. My name’s Malati. I’ve heard my father’s name was Shambhu Mondal.’ Malati was first put into Barrackpore sub-jail on 19 April 1974. Last April, she completed six years of life in jail. The registration no. is 7541 of 1974.

  Malati does not know

  why

  for the last six years

  she lies

  in prison

  without trial.

  Here’s the summary of the case as recorded in the court of the sub-divisional judicial magistrate of Barrackpore: On 2 April 1974, between 9:20 and 9:45 in the morning, the accused was seen eating from discarded packets lying on the floor of the lounge in Dum Dum airport, and consequently, she, Malati, was effacing the image of the Republic of India. Hence Dum Dum police charged her under Section 290 of the Indian Penal Code and brought her to court for disposal of justice. Her mother worked in babu-homes in the city. She left in the morning and returned late at night. She then made a few rotis and gave these to my brother and me to eat, with salt and chillies. On some days, she brought back rice and vegetables packed in a plate. We used to eat that. The whole day I roamed the airport, searching for food. The police caught me one day. I had effaced the image of the great Indian nation. They took me to the police station. And then one day to the court. Eventually to jail. It’s there in the court papers. On 24 September 1974, in the court of the Barrackpore SDJM, after hearing everything, the order was passed that Malati be presented in court again when instructed. Thereafter, for five years no one remembered Malati. She had entered jail at the age of twelve. In the language of the court, she was an accused under trial. For five years, the honourable court completely erased any memory of her.

  Malati also gradually forgot everything. Whether in police lock-up or in jail – at least one got something to eat there. She once said her mother’s parental house was in Gomdipara, near Dum Dum. The police did not think it necessary to try to locate them. Malati said: ‘Mother, father or brother – I have nobody now. During the last six years, no one ever came to visit me, no one at all.’ In the last one year, she had to go to the Barrackpore court thirty times. The jail superintendent said: ‘I came across the name out of the blue one day as I scanned through the register. Malati had not been brought to trial. She was rotting in jail without trial for five years. I immediately wrote a letter to the court. On receiving my letter, the judge himself wrote a letter to the state government. The judge’s note remained stuck inside some file in Writers’ Building. Everybody forgot about Malati once again. I wrote once again to the judge. He wrote another letter to the government. “May the honourable government be so kind as to arrange for the proper rehabilitation of this girl, in a proper environment.” That order has so far crossed only three tables in Writers’ Building.’

  Malati wanted to learn some skill, tailoring or any kind of work, so that she could fend for herself. ‘Can’t the gorment help me a little?’ Yes, she knows the name of the prime minister of India. She had also heard that this was a great woman. Casting her eyes down on her toes, biting the nails of her left hand, she said: ‘I really want to have a family, a handsome husband … I want to eat well twice a day – rice with sweet tamarind chutney.’

  Today, after such a long time, she does not remember that six years ago she had gone to forage some food thrown away by babus in the airport lounge, an offence for which six years of the child’s life were lost in jail. In a jail in independent India. Without trial.

  Unseen, Ramayan Chamar

  We mete out the punishment that the law is unable to deliver. We let the ruling class know that they do not have impunity.

  In the course of writing, the newspapers begin to fill up with reports about the Deoli carnage, and the Malatis, in routine fashion, following custom, keep becoming mere stories. The incidents keep coming, one after another – Deoli, Belcha, Pimpri, Medak … Two high-caste thakurs shot and took out only twenty-four dalits, all at the same time and all from one family. Only twenty-four persons, including women and children. A few years earlier, in Tamil Nadu, in exactly the same fashion, only forty-two persons had been burnt to death, they were dalits too. Do you remember Medak in Andhra Pradesh? Our one and only woman prime minister had been elected to parliament from there. The newspapers reported that a young woman from the Dalit community had been made to parade naked in a village there. It took a lot to get this news out in the papers – the journalists wrote about all that. In their view: The government was busy trying to deny the incident in the most unbelievable way. Oppression of dalits on the pretext of being associated with the Naxalite movement was not something new in this country. Mulish bureaucrats smile blissfully and twirl their moustaches. The government is apathetic. It is necessary to reflect upon whether it would be appropriate, or safe, to attach the word ‘purposefully’ here. My light goes off. Everyone knew He would come again, yes, that’s right, may the realization of His deliverance be speedy. Oh compassionate Guruji, what’s the method for the twenty one thousand six hundred recitations of the Name?

  The watchman has lit the lantern

  Affluence has a special odour. He discerns the smell. Different from the smell of deprivation and poverty. A special fishy odour. His arrival in the city for the first time from the village.

  The city sprawls in front of him. Streets. One street wending its way to another street. That street, in turn, leading to yet another. Each one with a different name, and of a different length.

  A wall of wild wind keeps growing higher in front of his eyes. The wild wind rubs itself against the inside of his head.

  The city spreads north, south, east and west. There is a circular urinal in the centre of the city. It is as if the city has grown around it. Amidst the stench of ammonia that burns the eyes, he discovers that pimp and gentleman, professor and idiot, babu and beggar, are all one here

  We, the poor people, offspring of the disfavoured queen’s womb – the cuntry’s become independent while we’re left to forage cow-dung…

  He keeps the line ready to be uttered by Ramayan Chamar, and then he sees that, by doing this, his last refuge, the base of the tree, has already been appropriated.

  Muralidhar Singh fled home when the bomb attacks began. He was a worker in Alexander Jute Mill and a member of the CITU-affiliated union. ‘I’m holed up somehow with wife and ch
ildren in the mill’s warehouse. I’m unable even to go to the union office in the No. 3 Line for fear of bombs. Knives will be pulled out the moment I’m seen. Each day, the situation becomes more dire with the politics of takeover of a locality. Mister – right in front of my eyes, the country has become a den for satta, gambling, illicit liquor, whores and mastaans.’

  He adds: ‘I see the police walking arm-in-arm with the very people who are accused.’

  The leader’s manner of speaking was like something from a cartoon film

  He climbs on to the dais and keeps delivering his speech

  The dead people keep getting heavier

  The watchman has lit the lantern

  A hut of thatch over earthen walls that’s our home

  sleeping, sitting, cooking and eating, goats, chickens and ducks,

  all beneath this single shade

  when native sahibs come to the dak bungalow for shikaar

  we get to eat their leftovers and bones.

  our life goes on through joys and sorrows

  like a bullock cart

  every now and then the babus come with women

  to have fun

  as they get drunk on liquor

  they shed their clothes

  they cavort naked

  in front of us

  right in front of our little children

  the intoxicated bibi straddles the naked babu

  they don’t even think we’re human

  hey – are servants and watchmen human?

  just slip a ten-rupee note

  and everyone bows their heads and salaams

  Phuli, frightened, takes the children

  and runs away

  seeing the sexual frolicking of the big sahib

  the one-and-a-half year old kid sucks noisily

  at the teat

  and gapes, wide-eyed, in alarm