Life Among the Scorpions

by Jaya Jaitly

  His speeches, whether in public gatherings or in Parliament, were mesmerizing. He was not satisfied until he could go on for at least an hour. At times I would wish he would conclude soon as we would usually be perilously close to missing a flight or train after the program. I would tease him about starting at the slow speed of a car in first gear with a low and sober pitch, moving slowly through second and third gears to the high pitched fourth-gear punch lines before we could expect him to wind down and end. Fortunately, he never seemed to mind my irreverence. He knew that it was my way of admiring his eloquence.

  George Sahib had the ability to work at multiple levels, thinking, speaking and writing of different things at the same time. He seemed to be a man in a hurry to do all that he possibly could in as many hours as he could stay awake. This made him incapable of holidaying, or even watching films or television; the latter were mere imitations of what was real, he believed. He had seen and experienced too much in life to need to see depictions of sorrow, violence, politics or poverty on a screen. He feared nothing and no one, and never had a possession or position he did not mind giving up in a moment. Precisely for this reason, he was both loved and hated since he did not allow himself to be vulnerable, and remained unfazed in the face of all the attacks that came his way.

  The care and concern he showed towards human beings formed the singular attributes which George Sahib could be identified with. He never made anyone feel irrelevant or unwanted. He would carry airline toffees in his pockets to his next destination in case there was a little child, or a dog he met when he arrived. He loved crowds and people, struggle and combat, never giving up a fight for justice till the very end. He didn’t believe in court cases, and instead preferred public struggles or political fora. But he was equally happy alone, retreating into books and western classical music, not needing another soul for conversation or companionship.

  George Sahib never owned a comb. He was, in fact, presumed to be a rabble-rouser who never combed his hair or wore clean clothes. However, he was most sophisticated and meticulous about his personal appearance, bathing twice a day, and washing his own clothes every day till he was over 70 years old. He consciously chose to wear simple khadi and cotton pyjamas so that he was like an ordinary person and not one of those stiff, self-conscious leaders whose badge is to wear highly starched and bleached white khadi kurtas. He had a gruff exterior which did not invite small talk or superficial conversation. And despite that, I was often surprised at his grasp of some fact or subtlety that was far beyond his usual scope of interests. He read the first lot of the Harry Potter books alongside biographies of world figures, the writings of Dr Ambedkar, Mahatma Gandhi, Winston Churchill, philosophical tomes or legal histories involving complicated international human rights cases. He particularly loved to devour economic surveys and carried them wherever he went, but occasionally bought the latest popular novel at an airport. He had a huge library in which there was no book he had not read at some time, including ones in Kannada and Hindi.

  Today, I find it bizarre to describe George Sahib in the present tense since he is medically lost to us and the world at large. It is, therefore, with an underlying feeling of discomfort that my verbs, with reference to him, are formulated in the past tense. He used to say: ‘politics is life and politics is for people’. I feel honoured that George Sahib shared that life wholeheartedly with me for thirty years.

  I can proudly say I never spoke negatively of him, betrayed him, asked him for anything for myself, or ever told him anything but the complete truth for all of the thirty years I was his colleague and friend. There was something about him that demanded complete unselfishness. My providing him with a quiet logistical support in his political activity and loyalty during a difficult period of time when he lacked importance, position or ability to do much for anyone, perhaps made him believe I was a steadfast and reliable partner in times of struggle. He had no car and no one to pick him up at airports. I would drive him, sometimes waiting on the pavement at times when there was no overhead roofing, no seating and no digital signboards outside the airport. I did it because I was convinced he was a person born to lead and do many things, and no one should be expected to function without a support system. I also felt sorry that he was abandoned by all his younger acolytes and erstwhile activist colleagues, and therefore needed help. This may have built his confidence in me which never ended even in those last moments when his mind was fading rapidly and he was often suspicious of those around him as happens to many at a particular stage of the neurological disease that was to overpower him later. He would only let down his guard with me at times like this. This is what made it particularly poignant when later, I was unable to give him the familiarity and reassurance he needed at the most vulnerable of situations because of restrictions imposed on me by his family.

  Among the obscenest words in a medical dictionary, at least for me, are ‘amyloid beta protein plaque deposits’, ‘neurofibrillary tangle’ and ‘presenilin mutations’. These monsters have all but closed the communication lines in George Sahib’s brain. In other words, as someone in a beautiful documentary on Alzheimer’s once said, ‘It is as if, slowly, the electrical circuits in a house go off, one by one, till the entire house is dark.’

  ~

  Many must be considering it odd that the legal heirs of George Fernandes should go to such crude and demeaning lengths to gain control of him and his material assets, and go to the extent of such drama, stealth and intrigue to capture him from his officially allotted residence. No one seems to have sought an answer from them as to why they could not come in broad daylight, conduct a civilized reconciliation with him, his colleagues, family and friends, in sheer goodwill, and seek everyone’s assistance while they took charge of his care. The only reason I can think of was that people not worthy of him convinced Leila Fernandes that I was the terrible villain who had to be removed from the scene.

  Anyway, for me now, my interminable CBI court case and George Sahib himself, are both in a state of limbo.

  ~

  I have, in more introspective and weaker moments throughout life, during every struggle, indulged in wondering whether I had not just been good enough to deal with political life, or not smart or intellectual enough to gain acceptance in circles dominated by men. I remember the flush of triumph when the Economic & Political Weekly first published a long article of mine about the lives, financial troubles and suicides of women mat weavers in Kodungallur in Kerala. I often thought, why so? What was I trying to prove and to whom? It was directed towards everyone who had made me feel intellectually small.

  I have also wondered whether my role in politics harmed my interests in the handicrafts world. I have come to the conclusion that being in politics has actually widened my understanding and perception of the socio-economic issues in the lives of our artisans. I realize that aesthetic creativity and political activism can coexist even if our elite cannot always accept it. I have decided that the most important struggle for all women in public life is to firmly reject those signals in society that tell us that it is a crime to be born a woman, and a punishment to be in politics.

  After the many undertows, some Under Toads have revealed their presence. But, as in Garp’s world, life, with all its joys, sorrows, energies and challenges, still gives us something new and interesting every day.

  *Names of a few individuals have been changed in this chapter.

  *Kalari Kovilakom has a website containing its cultural history. Those interested could visit http://www.cghearth.com/kalari-kovilakom

  26

  BEING HUMAN

  The Sadness of Caring in Public Life

  THE STORY OF HOW A woman feels about public issues cannot be complete without sharing two incidents, the memories of which have never left me. One was fleeting and did not actually involve me. The other drew me in as much as a woman and a mother as it did as an activist. Both are unforgettable.

  It was a chilly morning in a winter month in Delhi in the ye
ar 2000. I was returning alone by train from somewhere. The skies were still a flat grey, one that precedes sunrise, with just a slight hint of gold in the eastern sky trying to break through it, at a distance. At the station, everyone scurried about loaded with luggage, looking ahead at the exit without distraction. I was walking along the over-bridge, dawdling a bit as I was not in a hurry to get to 3, Krishna Menon Marg to pick up the car and Pepper, the dog. She always went home with me after work but was deposited at George Sahib’s residence while I was away, for the company of the other dogs there and to enjoy the big garden instead of being alone at my home. I happened to glance down to the edge of the walkway near the stairs. A fairly young man, covered in an aura of dustiness, with grey-brown hair, a tattered grey-brown shawl, dry grey-brown skin—the typical colours of poverty—and flashing wild red eyes was sitting on his haunches pleasuring himself unknowingly in full public view, if one could call those rapid, desperate and tragic gestures ‘pleasuring’. His pleasure was probably less than that felt by an animal, his obliviousness to the world around him a blessing. The basic desire of any living being for some warmth, comfort, reassurance and human touch—in any measure at all—seemed to have taken control. I was stunned at the depths to which a person could descend, losing his sense of power and control, dignity and privacy, when poverty is all-engulfing, and a complete disconnect from reality takes over. I felt as if I was either going to cry, or vomit.

  I reached 3, Krishna Menon Marg in an auto-rickshaw. (Yes, I was the Party president at that time but it had not changed my usual ways of travelling when someone could not come to pick me up.) The sky was brighter now. The usual batch of seven newspapers had not yet been delivered. The dogs and Durga, the cook, were just waking up when I rang the bell. George Sahib was still asleep. I could not go home just yet. The experience of watching that man at the station had been too much for me. I know I was being emotional, irrational, and there are many theories one could present at seminars or speeches one could deliver from political platforms as to the reason for such conditions of poverty, and maybe even whom to blame. But what would be the use of that? I wondered whether all the meaningless attack, defence, fighting, counter-fighting, strategizing and manipulating, smooth talking and aggressive abusing that goes on in India’s daily political life could provide any solution to prevent the circumstances that created the utter misery of the human condition I saw at the station.

  All I could do in my helplessness was to stare out at the dogs half-heartedly chasing five peacocks that regularly strutted around the vast garden space.

  ~

  One morning, quite soon after I became Party president, The Statesman had a story about how a very young girl-child who turned out to be an emaciated four-year-old was found dumped in garbage and had been taken to a nearby hospital in West Delhi by the police. Sadly, the name of the hospital doesn’t come to mind and the newspaper clippings of that time were in Samata Party files which became unavailable to me from early 2010. I decided to enquire about her condition and ensure she was properly treated for the injuries from dog bites and whatever else was described in the news report. I went to the hospital and met the superintendent. A representative from the office of Kiran Choudhury, Congress politician and MLA from that area, was already in the room. I introduced myself as the president of the Samata Party and explained that I had come to reassure the public and myself that this abandoned child would be cared for properly till someone else took responsibility for her future well-being. The head doctor said she was not seriously harmed and that her injuries were being treated. I went up to the children’s ward to see her. There lay a skinny little girl in a dirty dress, looking ahead blankly. I asked the doctor what kind of support she needed to recover completely. He said their routine medicines were enough.

  ‘I want to help. How can I do that?’ I asked.

  ‘You could provide a full-time attendant if you wish. Then she would have proper attention,’ he replied. Kiran Choudhury telephoned me to say she was glad I was handling it and expressed her concern and solidarity. I hired a female attendant from a nursing agency at nine thousand rupees for the month, and gave everyone at the hospital strict instructions to note that I was taking responsibility for the child’s care and should therefore be informed if the little girl needed anything. I wanted them to know that they could not be neglectful because the child was not wanted. Everyone agreed.

  Every week that I visited her, the child improved. She began smiling. Her skin became cleaner, lighter, and less shrivelled. Her hair was brushed, and her eyes developed a shine.

  ‘Aap ka naam kya hai, baby?’ (What is your name, baby?)

  ‘Munni,’ she said. She was finally well enough to speak. We were thrilled.

  I decided to visit her for Diwali with a set of new clothes and some sweets for the children of the ward. Aditi and I went shopping at the Malviya Nagar market for girls’ vests, cotton panties, slips and simple dresses. We kept being shown useless velvety, sequinned, synthetic, pink-net things which were only fit for partying. When I finally explained to the shopkeeper the situation of the child for whom I was shopping, he took out a pile giving them to me free of cost, adding, that if I was doing something so kind, he too wanted to contribute his share. A fancy ‘branded’ shop would never have done that.

  When I announced to George Sahib that I was going to visit Munni in hospital for Diwali, he decided to come along. The Party workers were encouraged since the big boss was going. They had not bothered earlier because it was only about a sick child and the woman Party president.

  At the hospital, we distributed sweets to the elder children in the ward and dressed Munni in fresh new clothes. She responded to these gestures and even carried on a hesitant conversation. The attendant had grown fond of her and looked on proudly. George Sahib noticed that the hospital was filthy. Banana peels on staircase landings, rubbish all along the outer corridors, with a rat or two in the midst of garbage heaps nearby. He was furious, and ordered the Party workers to get some brooms and buckets. As we all started cleaning up the litter, the cleaning staff, embarrassed and penitent, came rushing to take over the task from us. All this was duly reported in the newspapers, with the male Party workers hastily arranging for a photographer and posing for pictures of the social work they had indulged in.

  After almost a month following this incident had gone by, I spoke to Amod Kant, the police officer who had established an NGO called Prayaas which took in orphaned and abandoned children. He agreed to take Munni in and said he would send a social worker with me on my next visit to complete the formalities and take her to their establishment. I had decided, that, if necessary, I would take Munni home with me for an interim two weeks to give her good food and the warmth of a snug bed to ensure she was really strong enough to face the world again.

  I reached 3, Krishna Menon Marg and telephoned the superintendent to tell him to prepare the discharge papers as we would be at the hospital to collect Munni by 11.30 am.

  ‘Oh, didn’t you know? Munni died five days ago,’ he informed me in a flat, even tone.

  I was completely stunned. A stream of questions came tumbling out: How could they have let this happen, why did they not inform me, was she ill, what exactly happened to her, did they not take care of her, had I not told them to keep me informed of everything at all times, etc.

  The same bland voice responded, ‘We thought the woman attendant you had employed would have told you.’

  But what happened to Munni when she was improving so rapidly?

  ‘We don’t know. She got fever in the morning and died the same evening,’ he replied, in a flat tone again, and disconnected the phone without waiting for me to say anything further.

  I wanted to scream and very loudly into a huge void space. Instead, I telephoned Aditi and gave her the news. She came over to keep me company. We sat in the late November morning sun, in the same back verandah at 3, Krishna Menon Marg, crying over each other’s shoulders. I wrote to the then Ch
ief Minister of Delhi, Sheila Dikshit, recounting the entire story, asking her to look into the episode as the hospital came under her government’s charge, to institute an inquiry and ensure an end to such callousness. I sent a copy of the letter to Kiran Choudhury.

  The chief minister never replied. And little Munni became one more girl child treated like the garbage in which she was found.

  ~

  It is only in sharing these stories that I can hope to exorcise the pain of remembering.

  EPILOGUE

  I Don’t Believe in Sad Endings

  I was wondering what a suitable Epilogue should contain. After all, whatever needed to be written has already been written. I surfed on Google for inspiration and found something that suited me exactly.

  Suggestion: Unless you’re already dead, you probably don’t want an epilogue to memoirs.

  Response: In which case someone else will write it for you, silly.

  Also, recently, I saw a cartoon of a small kid sitting at his desk, writing. His older friend asks him what he is doing: ‘I am writing my autobiography.’

  ‘But you only have one sheet of paper.’

  ‘Yeah, coz’ I’m only six years old.’

  Unlike the little boy, I am 75 years old, so my reader will forgive me for filling up a few more pages.

  If asked why I chose to be in public life, I refer to the opening pages of this memoir, where the woman in Malaysia chose to sit for a month in a glass cage with scorpions. Like her, it was a ‘choice’ I made. It has not been a bed of roses. I have learnt and unlearnt in the process of engaging with the many scorpions and those that weren’t. In the end, it has remained just that—a choice. I do not know why I made it; I just did.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS