The Golden Gandhi Statue From America

by Subimal Misra

  Whitty was confused: ‘But raiding rail wagons is bad, a crime!’ The man laughed again at Whitty’s words. The four stones on his four fingers sparkled. He was expansive now. Patting them affectionately on their backs, he said, ‘Damn it, sonny! Coming to break wagons with such notions! Exactly the opposite of what’s to be said and done! Now there’s the great Gandhi, such a big man! Come on, tell me, what lesson have you got from his life?’ They stared blankly. The man said, ‘The biggest lesson of the great Gandhi’s life is this: that you never wear a cap, but make others wear the cap. Ever seen a picture of the great Gandhi wearing a cap? But those who go about practising Gandhism all have Gandhi caps on their heads. What you won’t do yourself, you should tell others to do. What you can’t do yourself, you must tell others to be able to do. That’s the lesson of history. The real education. Understood anything?’

  Unassailable logic. Whitty and Shitty listened. Slowly, the man explained everything to them. Five wagons of his goods were coming from Bombay. Expensive stuff. Worth a few hundred thousand rupees. Even before it reached the station, midway, he wanted to transfer all the goods into his own warehouse. ‘No cause for fear. The train will move slowly. The wagons with the goods will be marked. Breaking the locks and taking out the stuff is all the work that is involved. A lorry will be ready under the rail bridge. The goods will be ferried away immediately. No need to be afraid of the police. A deal has been made with them. They will stand far away. There is a special arrangement with two rifle-bearing policemen. They will stand guard while the work is being done. If they think it appropriate, they may even sound one or two blank rounds.’

  The man explained everything threadbare. He said, ‘This is how you ought to advance in life. All the stuff is insured.’ He would get back the value of the goods from the railways. And even before the train reached the station, all his stuff would reach his warehouse. Goods intact and money besides! And that is the way. It is precisely by such means that one advances in life.

  The man was really magnanimous. He explained everything to Whitty and Shitty until it was as clear as water. He said, ‘There’s a little bit of risk in this work. But what’s life without a little risk? Besides, such work is done only after tying up all the loose ends. There’s no need to be afraid.’ And if the work was accomplished, they would get something like ten thousand rupees in one go! Then they could sit at home for a month. Spend money freely. Drink booze, go to whorehouses. ‘In this line, if you can take a little bit of risk, earning five-ten thousand rupees in one go is as easy as snuff! And if one can’t earn five-ten thousand rupees in one go, then has one advanced at all in life?’

  Another round of tea had been ordered for Whitty and Shitty. Sipping the tea, chewing biscuits, they reckoned it was just so that one ought to advance in life. It was like this that one hoodwinked people, making them wear caps while not wearing a cap oneself. In today’s world, if you could not earn five-ten thousand rupees in one go, then, what the heck – could you call that advancing in life! They agreed. The gang of the man with the Gandhi cap would come tomorrow and impart to them all the methods and rules of working. They would accompany them to the railway sidings for a few days. They would teach them the use of all the special tools and implements, whatever was needed to break rail wagons. Remembering now that they had set out to advance in life by raiding wagons with a dagger and a hammer, Whitty and Shitty laughed.

  But the story of Whitty and Shitty doesn’t end here. There was a turnaround in the situation. Thousands upon thousands of drawn swords surrounded the royal court.

  The people raised a commotion:

  ‘Listen, everyone, whose is this state so fine?’

  All the leaders of the land claimed:

  ‘Mine! Oh ’tis mine!’

  Then, one day, the Gandhi-cap-clad man arrived in the morning. He said, ‘Hey, Whitty and Shitty! I’m in great danger! The red-flag chaps are really thrashing us. They’re our enemy. Throw bombs at them. When you get a chance, slit their throats.’ Whitty and Shitty had by then become very street-smart. They had learnt to figure out state politics. They began throwing bombs at the red-flag chaps. Whenever they got a chance, they went about slitting their throats. In the afternoon, Gandhi Cap arrived again. He said, ‘The red-flag chaps are now our friends. Don’t say anything to them. The blue-flag ones are bad. Our enemy. Throw bombs at them. When you get a chance, slit their throats.’

  Whitty and Shitty then ignored the red-flag chaps and began throwing bombs at the blue-flag chaps. Whenever they got a chance, they went about slitting their throats.

  In the evening, Gandhi Cap arrived yet again. He said, ‘A compromise has been arrived at with the blue-flag chaps. The red-flag ones are bad. Our enemy. Throw bombs at them. When you get a chance, slit their throats.’

  Seeing how things were going, Whitty and Shitty were struck dumb. Those who were friends in the morning became enemies in the evening! And those who were enemies were transformed into friends! ‘Is this some kind of sorcery?’ Gandhi Cap laughed. ‘Yes, it’s sorcery. This game has to be played like this.’

  Whitty and Shitty understood everything. They sighed in realization. Things had indeed come full circle.

  Then they finally stood up straight and told Gandhi Cap, ‘Nothing more from us, find another way.’

  Gandhi Cap replied, ‘Beware! The writing on the walls proclaims: “Wagon breakers control Bengal’s politics today!’”

  They said, ‘To hell with that!’

  Gandhi Cap said, ‘You’re holding up advancement in life.’

  They said, ‘Let it get held up.’

  Gandhi Cap said, enraged, ‘For the last time, I tell you: think about it.’

  They said, ‘We’ve thought about it.’

  Then Gandhi Cap made a sign. Those who practised politics with hoodlums had to keep other hoodlums to watch over those hoodlums. Two twin shots, four in all, were fired from within the darkness, tearing Whitty’s and Shitty’s lungs apart. Two or three droplets of blood splashed onto the clean, neatly pressed white khadi. Gandhi Cap immediately applied some lime on that. He placed the cap properly on his head. He strode ahead along the straight road. He had to join, just now, the rally demanding an end to the politics of violence.

  1973

  Commentary ’71

  He was muddy up to his knees and his colour very tawny. He – the old bloke – had an amazing pair of cataractous eyes buoyant on his face, and muttered on indifferently. He said, ‘Way back, in the riots of ’47, my son was killed, and I’ve been searching for his bones ever since…’ Around him were the sounds of the night. Kaath champa bloomed at the break of dawn. Its fragrance spread. The old man inhaled deeply and said, ‘I think I smell something…’ From desolate midnight roads came the whining of mongrel dogs. ‘Who’ll buy flowers? Who’ll buy flowers? Jasmine, malati, fragrant bakul…’ Crying, ‘Why are you beating me? What have I done?’, the octogenarian man fell flat on his face. Blood flowed on the street. Thrusting his bloodied hand into his trouser pocket, the youth rushed into an alley. The clerical worker hurriedly finished his shopping and moved away from the place without looking at anything. The old bloke gazed fixedly through his cataractous eyes and said, ‘Will you hold my hand and just take me to the road, my dear? I want to search for my son’s bones. He was killed in the riots of ’47, on the streets of this very Calcutta.’ The old man stood up, supporting himself with the help of his staff. His lips trembled with emotion. Inside the room, a blue light came on, someone binged all night. People moved aside, each in their own way. And on the vacant streets, the old man walked, tapping his staff. His eyes were cataractous, his face creased, his skin sagging. The old man walked alone on the open streets with the help of his staff. Those responsible for keeping watch kept watch in hiding. A few people silently played dice under the neon light, on spread-out newspapers. Shops and markets functioned as always. Vegetables were sold as usual in the markets. At the paan shop, a song from the film Junglee played on a tran
sistor. The boy standing to buy cigarettes gyrated his hips. Paddy was harvested in the villages. In Vietnam, the liberation struggle continued relentlessly. American bombs rained down upon the hospital in the compound of the children’s school. Petrified, the children screamed. ‘Take shelter! Take shelter!’ Only the old man’s ears failed to hear the call to take shelter. All alone on the desolate streets, tap-tapping his staff, he advanced. His son was killed in the riots of ’47. Now he wandered searching for his bones. With those very rheumy, cataract-afflicted eyes would he unearth his dead son’s bones.

  ‘What’s the score today?’ Two journalists sipped tea as they wrote newspaper reports. They exchanged gossip. ‘Three people killed by pipe-guns in Beliaghata. One of them was dragged from a bus. A dead body severed into three pieces in Baranagar. And in civil-war-afflicted Shantipur, in Nadia district, thirteen people were killed in an encounter with police. About ten people are in hospital. Curfew has been clamped on the entire locality. Only one statue’s head has been broken – Rammohan’s – near Howrah. My elder daughter’s down with fever, she’s been shitting the whole day. The wife’s ill too, there’s not a person at home to clean her up…’ ‘It’s season-change time, brother, need to be a bit careful. Don’t stay outdoors too late at night. Some positive things happening too. Do you know, after a single threat, a sixty-four-rupee doctor charged eight-rupees? The thieving traders in Burrabazar are losing sleep…’ A blind beggar sat at a corner of the crossroads and sang, ‘Mother’s limbs burn away-ay-ay.’ Darkness in front of his eyes, he had never seen anything until now, he was never going to see hereafter. Only that old man, with his rheumy, cataractous eyes, advanced. He was going to search and find his dead son’s bones. There was no one in front of him. The streets were vacant. He was all alone. The solitary old man continued his journey on those vacant streets. Wind blew from all sides. The fragrance of flowers wafted by. The whispered conversations of frightened people. The song of the blind beggar: ‘Mother’s limbs burn away…’ On one side, men were killed, and on another, sex-magazines cluttered the pavements. Who bought them? Two intellectuals walked by, talking about that. They smoked Charminars and discussed politics and society. Seeing people being nearly killed, they moved aside. They didn’t want to get mixed up in any trouble unnecessarily. The tram clattered along on the road. ‘There’s no rationale for violence, shun violence!’ Writing in yellow colour, written across cream colour, moved away from the front of the eyes. Every now and then the old bloke muttered, ‘Way back, with the killing of my son, people began to be killed in this country. That trend continues to this day.’ The old man’s cataract-covered eyes sparkled. Darkness gathered in the nooks and crannies of the Maidan. In those patches of darkness, young men and women made love all night. There was a power crisis in the whole of West Bengal. All at once, a mass of lights went off. Scenting blood, a pack of hyenas stalked the dark streets of Calcutta. Thousands of manholes lay open. Preoccupied, inattentive pedestrians fell flat on their faces in all those places. The horns of ships blew incessantly from the Khidirpur docks. People walking by were startled. The sun’s heat rose. Temperatures soared. Excitement grew in the city. There were killings in the morning. By evening, people forgot about them. Wiping away the bloodstains with their feet, mango-sellers lowered mango baskets there and sold mangoes at a rupee a kilo. People bought them. The sound of morning’s bloodshed did not linger in the minds of the people in the evening. The blind beggar sang, ‘Mother’s limbs burn away…’ The song floated around in the bosom of electricity-starved Calcutta. The song blended with the fragrance of flowers. Blended with fresh blood. With that smell, the newborn child suddenly whimpered in his mother’s lap. The old man who was about to be murdered wanted to know: ‘Why are you attacking me? What wrong did I do?’ Driven crazy by that smell, the old bloke with cataractous eyes emerged into the street. He searched for the bones of his son killed in the riots of ’47.

  On the streets, now there was darkness in parts, and in other parts, vapid moonlight. In that light, people’s faces could not be recognized. Through that, in solitude, the old bloke stalked the streets. Leaning on his staff, the old man advanced, his eyes cataractous. The roads were desolate. A few tall buildings touched the sky; some decrepit, rugged slums. From the darkness, every now and then emerged the cry of ‘Hari bol, Hari bol’. According to custom, dead men rode on men’s backs. Puffed rice and coins were sprinkled ahead and behind. Male and female beggars from the pavements raced and picked up the coins. A surly dog slept beneath the lamp-post. Its skinny puppies, their bones sticking out, roamed here and there. Every now and then, the lights-out siren sounded suddenly. The fragrance of kaath champa wafted from across the wall. The old bloke trudged the streets. He crossed the major streets and reached narrow lanes. Moonlight sometimes shone bright before his eyes, sometimes there was darkness. The old man crossed the rail tracks. On one side, there was a red light signal, on the other side a green one. He crossed the canal and the river. There were waves on the river, and boats, their sails unfurled. In solitude, the old man walked, leaning on his staff. Given his cataractous eyes, he walked on surmise. There were fields on both sides of the old man now. Farmers tilled the fields. Seeing the old bloke all alone on the road, they were curious. Where was the old fellow headed? ‘I’m going to search for my son’s bones.’ They said, ‘In these bad times, aren’t you afraid to be all alone on the roads?’ Shaking his tawny beard, the old man laughed. He didn’t speak. ‘Do you know there were seventeen murders yesterday?’ The old man smiled wryly. He said, ‘Wa-ay back in ’47, it all started one night...’ Seeing him mutter, people thought he was mad. The old man sang to himself, ‘Mother’s limbs burn away…’ He walked the roads single-mindedly, taking small steps. No one accompanied him. Neither ahead nor behind. As he walked, he thought: surely one day I’ll find the bones I’m searching for! All around him, people moved away. Those who had kept watch so long went away unworried. Under the neon light, on spread-out newspapers, a few people continued to play dice in silence. Night descended as usual on the streets of Calcutta. The preparations for murder continued. Packs of hyenas roamed around in the darkness. Manholes continued to stay open. People fell flat on their faces in the darkness. Before being murdered they screamed, ‘Why are you killing me? What wrong have I done?’ Wiping away fresh blood with his left hand, the mango-seller lowered mango baskets there and sold mangoes at a rupee for a kilo. People bought. The tale of the morning’s killing became stale by evening. The solitary old man just walked on. Through darkness, through light, through vapid moonlight, he stalked the desolate streets. He said, ‘It all began way back in ’47…’ Chewing paan, the newspaper reporters wrote reports of murders. They lit a cigarette to lend flourish to their language. They sipped tea. They drank coffee. In between, they shared confidences with the person beside. ‘Do you know, Mukherjee, Haripada got his younger sister-in-law pregnant and while trying to get rid of that…’ Red paan spittle trickled down the two ends of his mouth. At the paan shop, the song from the film Junglee played on the transistor. The youth jiggled his hips. Bombs rained on Vietnam. The patients moaned. In the children’s school, the boys, unaware of anything right till the moment before dying, continued to recite catechisms. Every now and then, there were peace summits. In Delhi. In Calcutta. The tram with writing in yellow colour over cream colour went by. ‘There’s no rationale for violence, shun violence!’ Litterateurs engaged in literature. Poets wrote poems. Teachers taught. Businessmen ran businesses. Vegetable sellers sold vegetables. Politicians did politics. Farmers cultivated paddy. In Rabindra Sadan, dance dramas were staged. But on the streets, in lanes and alleys, fresh blood continued to run. All that blood didn’t dry in the sun. It didn’t get washed away in the rain. Day after day, all that blood remained there, as a debt. Shaking his tawny beard, the old man said, ‘Way back in ’47, it began one night.’ He said, ‘Mother’s limbs burn away…’ He muttered and tramped the streets. In all the desolation, only that solitary old
man walked the streets.

  1972

  Bare Bones Awakened

  It was morning when he got the news from a colleague. He said that a relative of his had given him an incoherent account of his narrow escape from Calcutta the previous night. In short, this is apparently what had happened. Around two in the morning, the waters of the Ganga suddenly began to froth. Most people in the city were in bed and knew nothing of what was happening. Their slumber was broken by a deafeningly loud crashing sound, accompanied by a flash of lightning in the southwest corner of the sky, the likes of which had never been seen before. At the same time, it became apparent that the city was flooding, with water levels rising up to the tenth floor. The people in the city drowned without knowing what was happening. The bearer of this news, who had escaped with his life, had seen the Monument crumble under the force of the water, crushing underneath it a much respected and well-known leader.

  When he heard about the incident, it was too incredible to believe and, at first, he laughed it away. But later, after hearing about it from others as well, he was in doubt. Around noon, the news spread that Calcutta had apparently been destroyed in a terrible disaster. So many people were reporting the news that it wasn’t possible to disbelieve it any longer. Besides, a few eyewitnesses had also been found – people who had been standing far away, or had somehow witnessed the incident from close quarters, or actually been in its vortex and yet been able to escape alive. Even though there wasn’t much in common between the different accounts of the incident, he did not doubt that some kind of calamity had befallen Calcutta. He wasn’t able to say with any conviction that the city was not wiped out as a result of the catastrophe. But his problem was that the accounts of the different people did not match in terms of specific events. They should have – and if they didn’t, then one had to arrive at a different interpretation altogether.