Travails with Chachi

by Louise Fernandes Khurshid

  The performance was spectacular. All safety nets were off. Like a supple 10-year-old Gemini Circus artiste our star swung from one end of the arena to the other – reaching his arms out to one group after the other. And guffawing maniacally when their fingers failed to connect ….

  He first went for the throats of what he called the ‘political pariahs’. And as he spoke I saw a few of the curs slink out of the room with their tails between their legs. Then came the turn of the bureaucrats, the ‘bandar babus’, prompting some in the room to start spreading red tape along his path, hoping he would trip on the way out. And on and on it went. He seemed to spare no one – not the media, not the cops, not even us innocent bystanders. We were all, he declared, part of a ‘deteriorating, decadent society’.

  Bablu ki Ma cheered lustily. ‘Maro saale ko,’ she yelled out, much to my embarrassment. I, myself, was reluctant to clap too loudly. Unknown to the little lady I had made many a fast buck ferrying these same khadi clads for naughty nightly Badkal bathing and Surajkund serenading. And I hadn’t exactly suffered during the elections. In fact, I had doubled my rates, liberally short-changed on the diesel and ferried countless bundles of posters and booze bottles. Bablu ki Ma had not asked questions when I brought in those extra blankets and a janta saree for her. So who was she to complain as well?

  But the crowd seemed to lap it up.

  I looked around and could hardly contain my laughter. In one corner a portly safari suit-clad saheb frantically nodded his approval. But wasn’t he the same man who had supplied posters and flags wholesale to the main Opposition party? In the centre of the hall sat our local wine merchant, with his twin sons. They had just opened an extension to their eatery with the proceeds of some very brisk sales during the last local election. I couldn’t help notice that while they clapped they glanced around surreptitiously to see who was looking.

  But, of course, there was no denying the wealth of genuine appreciation. Especially when our star came to the end of his bhashan and criticized the politicians’ penchant for carrying around those intimidating trappings of office – those fearsome ‘black cats’.

  I, unfortunately, couldn’t contain myself. From the corner of my eye I saw the shadow of his own six ‘black cat’ security guards cross the room, and out of the corner of my mouth slipped the word: ‘Hypocrite!’ The shadows suddenly assumed human form and six sten guns were swung around. I knew I was in trouble. The mood was off immediately. The baldpate turned in my direction and the finger of suspicion pointed at me. Did I want to be banned from ever fighting an election? How dare I criticize the great man himself? Did I not know that he, and he alone, had the power?

  I felt trapped. The man was right. He did have the power. Suddenly, from another corner of my eye, I saw salvation. Another shadow was reflected on the wall – that of a tarazu. First I thought it was the weighing scale of the halwai, trying to sweeten up the chief guest. But when I turned to the front, a strange sight greeted me. The shine on the baldpate had dulled. The black cats had miraculously turned into little billies. And, out of the mouth of the lion that had roared, came a whispered: ‘Meow’.

  I looked at the tarazu again. It was held aloft by a ghostly black clad figure with something suspiciously like a white wing collar. I couldn’t quite place the figure. It looked something like the Tis Hazari lawyer I encountered last week when Chachi’s fender nicked that Kinetic Honda. (A little money under the table and my lawyer said the scales of justice could be ‘persuaded’ to tip in my favour!) But these scales looked remarkably well balanced. Whatever it was, it certainly acted as a cross to a vampire. Our man started cowering and mumbling. Smirked one media man: ‘Classic bully! Bosses everyone else around town but backs off the minute someone has the guts to tick him off. Hats off to the Supreme Court for effectively informing our hero that he’s not the last word on every subject.’

  Bablu ki Ma was a trifle confused. The halo around Everyman’s hero was so rapidly disappearing that she wasn’t certain whether she had witnessed a tamasha, a circus, or a slice of life.

  But not for long. The big man lifted his head and roared again. That was enough of a signal. The black cats moved back into position and cornered the media men who, till then, had been gloating in one corner. They demanded that pencils be blunted, tape recordings be wiped out and all camera film be fogged. Another lot pointed their guns at the smirking politicians. And everybody else was ordered to produce their voter’s identity cards. Alas! The show was effectively over.

  4

  DOG DAY AFTERNOON

  THAT STORY SEEMED TO VASTLY AMUSE OUR TWO PIMPLY youth. ‘What was it that the media-shedia called the man? Some dog-shog name. Kya tha, yaar?’ Pimple No. 1 asked Pimple No. 2.

  ‘Some khatarnak, kind of kutta, yaar,’ came the reply.

  ‘Was it “Bulldog”?’

  ‘Well, he certainly behaved like one.’

  ‘No, yaar,’ I think it was “Doberman”, because he used to go for the jugular, like those killer dogs.’

  ‘Idiots,’ muttered Bablu, my boy, ‘it was “Seshan the Alsatian”.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Pimple No. 1. ‘It must be that German variety. I’m told they were the favourites of Hitler’s Germany. Appropriate name!’

  ‘Trust these sickos to know about Hitler’s Germany,’ Bablu muttered. ‘Papa, did you know Pimple No. 1 was rumoured to be in the mob that attacked your friend’s taxi stand at Jor Bagh in 1991? You don’t get more Hitler youth-alikes than this lot. Can’t you get rid of them? I know I told you to junk Chachi. But having these fellows touch her is making even me sick.’

  ‘Sick-wick tera baap!’ said Pimple No. 2. ‘You’re not doing us a favour by selling your precious Chachi to us. At least with Gurcharan Singh’s “Bhabhi” we were able to “car décor” her and sell her second hand. Your precious “Chachi” is in such bad shape that even as spare parts there may be no takers. You think we are pigs? Pick up your Chachi’s seat and see what’s breeding there! Ticks, bhai saab, ticks. Either your savaris have been real dogs or your Chachi’s being going to the dogs – either way, we’ll find it very difficult to get a buyer for her in one piece.’

  Ticks! This was a new one on me. I’ve always prided myself on Chachi’s cleanliness. Like clockwork, the first Sunday of every month I always spent a clear two hours giving Chachi a thorough vacuum job. Surely no foreign bodies could have escaped such rigourous standards? And, besides, it was only once that I broke the rule and carried a dog as a savari. Surely one chance encounter could not have resulted in this ‘tick infestation’ that Pimple No. 2 was sneering about?

  But apparently that’s all it takes. Just one chance encounter.

  I remember the time so well, although it was so many years ago. It all began with a phone call. Desperately seeking taxi. Destination: nearest hospital.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked Gurcharan Singh. ‘Another heart attack? Another dowry death?’

  ‘No such luck,’ he said cynically. ‘Not every mother-in-law is homicidal. Remember that crazed woman whose bahu’s dying declaration you witnessed last week?’

  Didn’t I remember! By Krishna! What a nightmare that had been! And imagine the local police fellow hinting that I change the statement! Chachi would never have forgiven me. Imagine placing a dying woman on her lap and then doing haraamipan.

  Which brings me back to the distress call. They didn’t call me Madath Singh Yadav for nothing.

  Chachi had groaned her way to Kailash Hills, in the posh suburbs of South Delhi, and gasped outside the address in question. There hadn’t been anyone in sight. Very strange. I was intrigued. Down the crowded, car-jammed side lane, six dogs lounged around, flicking their tails at the gathering flies. One mangy creature seemed to sit apart, alternately growling and groaning at no one in particular.

  Where was my savari? And where was the accident victim?

  From the corner of my eye I saw some movement. A ragged youth, clutching his ankle, hobbled into sight and
frantically gestured for me to come over. As I stepped out of the cab the lone ranger dog twitched and growled louder. The lad disappeared.

  By this time I had figured out that the dog was suspected to be rabid and the young lad had been bitten. But what had that got to do with me? If it was the hospital that they wanted then Chachi never refused an errand of mercy. (Strictly by the meter, of course!) But the situation here seemed to call for something else. I started to get the distinct impression that someone was suggesting I help trap and transport away a possibly rabid dog! That was just too much!!

  ‘I say, what’s going on here?’ I thought. I was not running a stray dog-catcher service. Why not just a simple phone call to the dog pound or the nearest government veterinary clinic?

  Here was the catch. It seems the good lady, Manekaji Gandhi (of clean-up-the-slaughter-houses fame), then Central minister of state for environment, had been able to persuade the lower courts (praise be upon them) to tip their scales in favour of all stray dogs – rabid or otherwise. The result: a halt – on grounds of cruelty to animals – to all stray dog catching and their destruction.

  The affected parties at Kailash Hills had the statistics on their fingertips. (They had had five dog bites and ten near misses till that day.) One of them had a relative working with the Bureau of Health Intelligence and he had some very staggering information to add – all of which had hiked up the nightmare potential of the atmosphere sky high.

  Did we know that, even in its short span of clinical illness, one single rabid dog was capable of biting up to 60 to 100 human beings and animals? Were we aware that over 25,000 persons died of hydrophobia (rabies) every year in India and approximately 5,00,000 underwent anti-rabies immunization (after being bitten)? Did we know that a survey conducted in 41 medical colleges around the country had revealed at least one rabies victim out of every 2,000 patients admitted to hospital care? Did we know that the Infectious Diseases Hospital at Kingsway Camp in Delhi had registered 203 rabies cases in 1991; 171 in 1992 and 240 in 1993? (Remember this memory goes back to 1994. God forbid what the figure must be since then!)

  Did we know that once a rabid dog bit a person, and if he or she did not take the full vaccine in time, the chances of getting rabies remained open for 20 years?! Did we know that rabies could be contracted from a rabid animal even through the dog’s saliva coming in contact with any fresh cut or abrasion on a person’s body?

  The information was mind-boggling. I started to seriously sweat.

  Even more so when we were told that the Bureau of Health Intelligence had registered 23,552 cases of rabid dog bites in 1991; 25,306 in 1992 and as high as 27,421 in 1993. Worse still that the recorded number of rabid dogs destroyed in New Delhi alone was 12,264 in 1991 and 15,420 in 1992.

  And in the subsequent years? Well, that was what was most disturbing. It seems in 1993 Manekaji went to the court (not officially as minister, though) and took out an injunction against the destruction of stray dogs ….

  ‘Amazing lady, this Ms. Gandhi. “Green”, the firangis call her.’ That was Anju Varma, the English Literature lecturer from the nearby all mahila college, speaking. ‘Green all right!’ she continued, her anger getting the better of her. ‘She would rather expose our children (who for lack of individual house lung space often have to play in community parks) to the jaws of a rabid dog than urge the authorities to come up with more humane methods of tackling the stray dog menace.’

  I was a trifle surprised. Anjuji’s one of those activist types who admire Medha Patkar and chain themselves to electric poles near the Boat Club when women’s rights are said to be in peril. I had ferried her and six other friends around during that horrendous dowry death agitation and Chachi had even tolerated the extra burden. What happened to Anjuji’s righteous indignation now? She openly confessed that the rabies business was too close to home for objective rationalization. ‘Are Menakaji and others who advocate her cause going to guarantee the safety of our children on stray dog-littered streets?’

  The ironic thing is that these stray dogs are attacking not only people. I remember some children I ferried to the Delhi Zoo talking about a pack of stray dogs, which had attacked, and killed, many precious black buck in broad daylight at this very so-called sanctuary for animals. So whose life were the dogooders saving?

  And where did that leave the ordinary citizen – who had no access to the implements to trap and destroy a mad dog? Five more dog bites and ten more near misses? And do you know how expensive these anti-rabies injections are, not to count the inconvenience and pain of taking the shots? Rs. 1475/– (five injections at Rs. 304/– a shot) No small amount!

  Was this the way to approach the problem? I wondered. (By this time I was not just a taxi driver. The woes of the inhabitants of Kailash Hills were now my woes as well. I, too, nursed a swollen, bitten ankle…) Wouldn’t the dog be better off painlessly put to sleep than poisoned or beaten to death – which is what the residents, in desperation, were beginning to contemplate?

  Ms. Gandhi, what do you say? What is the use of opening up animal shelters if people can’t get the stray animals to you?

  We sympathize and understand your concern for the animals. But will you spare a thought for the children?

  5

  THE CROSS THEY BEAR

  ‘DON’T LOOK TO THESE POLITICIAN TYPES FOR ANY SYMPATHY, even for the children,’ my ample bosomed Bablu ki Ma butted in. That surprised me. I used to think she had a soft spot for Manekaji and normally would have been brandishing the belan, the rolling pin, at any unkind remark about ‘Indiraji’s bahu’. Today she was in a different mood. And, apparently, it wasn’t just the ‘Draupadiharan’ of Chachi that was agitating her.

  It didn’t take any detective work to see what the problem was. All of today’s newspapers carried the headlines of two innocent children being burnt alive along with their missionary type father, someone called ‘Staines’….

  But her belan did come up when Pimple No. 1 volunteered to comment on the situation. ‘Mataji,’ he said, inviting the first black mark, ‘these Christian-Vischans deserve the “Dara Singh treatment”. Ask Praveen Togadia. (Second black mark). He’ll tell you how dangerous these missionary-vishionary types are. They pretend to do good social work but are actually out to convert our Hindu souls. They pretend to educate us but are actually out to brainwash our children. Don’t get fooled by that children bit. Any sense to take children out on social work? I tell you, they were just a smokescreen. Anyone who can use children to disguise their evil intentions deserves to be ….’

  ‘Hai Ram!’ Bablu ki Ma burst forth, before she physically charged the car cannibals, belan at full mast. ‘How often are you going to kill Mahatma Gandhi? And how many times will you nail Jesus Christ to the cross?’

  I knew this wasn’t really Bablu ki Ma talking. I knew she knew little of the life and times of Mahatma Gandhi and nothing about the teachings and trauma of Jesus Christ. I knew she was only parroting sentiments expressed by some khadi-clad NGO women at the public meeting held in our mohalla last night. But I also knew that she wasn’t lashing out completely without understanding. I knew why her eyes misted when she read about Gladys Staines’ noble statement about ‘forgiveness’ for the killers of her husband and two little children.

  I, too, remembered what she appeared to remember.

  It had been a bleak morning mid March last year − one of those adrak ki chai, the flavourful ginger tea days when work is far from the inclination. Around mid-morning the doorbell rang. A sombre, black-suited Joseph Pinto, my colleague from the taxi stand, stood outside. For a moment I thought it was work again, and I prepared to say an emphatic: No! But one look at Joseph’s face and I wasn’t so sure. ‘What’s the problem, brother?’ I asked. ‘Ghar mein sab theek toh hai?’

  It seems all was well at the Pinto household and my friend was in no sort of pain. It was just the solemnity of the day that gripped him. Could I drive his family to church? Today was Good Friday – the day his god, Is
a Masih, was crucified.

  Now I really don’t go along with this nailing-to-the-cross business. But then I guess what we do during our pujas and purnimas must look just as strange to friend Joseph. So who was I to judge?

  So to the church it was – the main cathedral near Gol Dak Khana. Joseph, Mary, Shanti and little Deepak.

  I was intrigued by the combination of names. Firangi sounding ones for the grownups, Hindu names which connote ‘peace’ and ‘light’ for the little ones. I asked my friend how he got what seemed to me an outlandish name (Pinto). ‘How much more outlandish than “Sodabatliopenerwala” or “Screwwala”?’ he countered. (For, indeed, such surnames do exist among the Parsi community of Bombay.) ‘Or, for that matter, “Madath Singh Yadav”.’ That didn’t really give me my answer, so I persisted. ‘But, seriously,’ I said, ‘Christians like you claim to be one hundred per cent Indian but have names like “Fernandes” and “Pereira” and “D’Souza” and “D’Gama” and “D’Mello”, which are distinctly Spanish/Portuguese. Doesn’t make sense to me.’ Friend Pinto appeared hard pressed to keep a grip on himself. He was one of those whose father had been foreman at a coffee plantation near Chickmagalur (the place that the late Mrs. Indira Gandhi made famous) and had studied, till the Matric, under Jesuit care. Joseph said: ‘You come home one day. I have the family tree of the son-in-law of my father’s boss, F. A. B. Coelho. The man (the damaad, that is) was a big shot in the Central Government and retired as the country’s finance secretary. You just see his family tree and you’ll get your explanation.’ This family tree of the Fernandes/ Prabhu family (only males recorded!) dates back to 15 August 1560 – before the British came to India – when P. J. Fernandes’s first ancestor was converted from Hinduism to Christianity by Portuguese missionaries.