Travails with Chachi

by Louise Fernandes Khurshid

  Those were the successful ones. The confident ones. The ones who had already got over the first hurdle of getting the ticket. Not all those who enjoyed the comforts of Chachi’s lap went home happy. My last savari left last night, the weight of the world on his shoulders. This was his tenth try in the last ten years and the answer − through selections for MPs, MLCs and MLAs − was always the same. He was definitely contemplating political sanyas.

  Poor chap. He was definitely one of life’s becharas, a loser. Imagine his luck: In 1984, when he applied for a Lok Sabha ticket under the computer culture of the late Rajiv Gandhi, he wrote on the prescribed form: ‘I went to Jail for the Party’. But apparently ‘computerji’ had only been programmed to register the first four words in this particular column. His application, therefore, registered: ‘I went to Jail’. And he was promptly rejected as undesirable.

  This time he decided to beat the system. But − you guessed it − the system beat him again. Some smart aleck, who carries his laptop and printer in his briefcase, changed the co-ordinates. The computer now only took note of the last four words. My bechara friend’s application therefore now read: ‘Jail for the Party’. And so he was promptly rejected again…

  14

  IMPRACTICAL SESHANOMICS

  THE TELEGRAM ARRIVED THE MORNING AFTER I SAW OFF the last, extremely dejected, passenger. It tersely read: ‘Chachi needed. You come too. Biradari meeting on Monday. Yours, Tau Nakli Singh’.

  I immediately whipped out my NOKIA cellphone and tried to call Tau. This did not sound good. Had my naalaik, the complete good-for-nothing brother-in-law got into trouble again? Or got my sister pregnant once more? Turns out it wasn’t anything as alarming. As a man of the city and one of the few educated chaps in the family (even at Matric failed), it seems my opinion would be valued at this crucial meeting. And, incidentally, Chachi would come in useful to ferry people from the interior villages.

  What was the problem? I asked Tau. ‘Beta, we have to take some hard decisions,’ he said. ‘How can we possibly pull off an election victory in the current circumstances?’

  Now, this was the month of November in the year 1994 and I wasn’t aware of any elections due in UP, so I was quite confused. (If the Dainik Jagran hadn’t reported it then it couldn’t possibly happen.) ‘I think you’ve got it wrong,’ I said. ‘The elections are on in Goa, Sikkim, Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka. Not in UP.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ said Tau. ‘I’ve just returned from Andhra, where our Yadav Mahasabha has put up two candidates. Everywhere I went these Election Commission babus hovered around me like vultures at a massacre. It really cramped my natural style.’

  I could just imagine Tau’s frustration. It seems he had taken along two suitcases of ‘you know what’ and a carton of 10,000 key chains depicting little Lord Krishna stealing the butter on one side and a photo of our most prominent Yadav leader on the other − what he rightly believed to be a clever combination of caste and religious appeal. With those Election Commission wallahs hanging around it seems even the airline tags remained intact! Now, how in the world was a person to fight a decent election in these circumstances?

  It wasn’t difficult to figure out what he meant. Ever since Bablu showed me this cover story in Sunday about how ‘Seshan the Alsatian’ was out to economize during elections, I myself have been maha depressed. This goody-two-shoes fellow thinks that the way to keep an election clean is to monitor petrol bills and poster printing! As Bablu would say: ‘Get real!’ Obviously this chap has not really seen the inside of a UP election − especially in our neck of the woods in the ‘badlands’ of Etah, Etawah, Kannauj, Mainpuri and Farrukhabad.

  Interestingly it was this very thought that came to my rescue to reassure the clansmen when Chachi and I got to the meeting. What were we worried about? I asked them. Since when did we fight elections with video vans and film star endorsements and posters and handbills and flags − the kind of things that this Election Commission chappie was monitoring? In fact, it was Tau’s opponent − that vilayat-educated, zarurat se zyada seedha bechara − who would have the problem. With 2,100 villages in the constituency and 1,400 polling booths, it was he who would be at a disadvantage. The logic? Minus the fleet of jeeps, the slickly presented video campaign and the snazzy posters, banners, badges and bindis, how could he get his message across? As for us, let’s face it, even before that Raja character resurrected the ghosts of Mandal, Tau had already perfected both the art and science of using ‘cash, criminals and caste’.

  While I spoke, the corner of my eye caught sight of a visibly agitated Dadu, his Gandhi topi wobbling precariously on his baldpate. I realized I had spoken out of line. And perhaps too much. Dadu, old-fashioned swatantra senani that he was, took this election business very seriously. He and Tau were like koyla and paneer, like black and white, on the issue of how to fight and win elections. While Dadu believed that one’s vote was singular and sacred, Tau’s philosophy was that the ends justified the means. Both Tau and I realized we had to get Dadu out of the room before he started talking about ethics and all that sort of nonsense that makes you lose elections. So I conveniently remembered a letter that Bablu had written to his Dadu − enough of an excuse for a besotted grandfather to move out of the room before his indignation got the better of us.

  Having got that ‘impediment’ out of the way, I proceeded to calm down my agitated clansmen. Why should we worry? I asked. We, anyway, don’t spend money on unnecessary election paraphernalia so accounting is never a problem. Our main expense is on last minute booth capturing which, anyway, the Election Commission fellows are pretty helpless to prevent. What I mean is, they can only act against us if we are caught transgressing the law. And that’s pretty near impossible given the meager wherewithal they are supplied with by way of vehicles and back-up force.

  As I spoke I could see everyone visibly relax. My cousin, Anand Parbat Singh, Tau’s oldest son, twirled his mustache and smiled to himself. I could see that he remembered his favourite ‘ditch trick’. This involved identifying villages ‘unsympathetic’ to our candidate and then digging a deep ditch across the road, which linked these villages to the polling booth. The pièce de résistance of this exercise − which is conducted the night before polling day − is to fill the ditch with water. If the Election Commission babus can’t reach the polling booth, which we have identified for ‘capture’ then what will they record? And the record − as we all know − is everything. As for the polling officers on the spot − the school teachers, bank employees, Mandi Samiti officials, Nagar Palika workers − could you see them running the risk of questioning a booth capturer with the barrel of an unlicensed, country-made pistol pointing at their head?

  While Tau pounded me on the back and encouraged enthusiastic applause from the biradari, I thanked my lucky sitaras, my lucky stars, that Dadu was out of the room. I was not proud of the performance.

  Mind you, while he thoroughly disapproves of any action less than Gandhian, Dadu isn’t exactly a fan of these Election Commission wallahs, especially the big boss at New Delhi. Of course his reasons are somewhat different from Tau’s and mine. Dadu is not worried about posters on walls. The only time his wall ever does get painted is during an election! But, more important, he constantly worries how he will get his mother – my grandmother – to the polling booth. At 95 years and terribly frail, she is still particular about exercising her vote. With all the restrictions now being put on transportation, was she expected to walk to the booth one mile away? ‘These babus say they want everyone to exercise their vote, but they make it next to impossible for this to happen,’ Dadu always complains. ‘It’s obvious that they sit in New Delhi and draw out their plans. Have they every considered how difficult it is for women and old people to reach polling booths in remote villages because of their highhanded order keeping vehicles off the roads on polling day? These modern day masihas. Save us from their sanctimony!’

  I, too, have a big haddi to pick with
these Election Commission wallahs. It’s not the politician’s pocket that is being cut. It’s poor − well, relatively poor − taxi drivers like I, who could have earned a fast buck during elections, whose livelihood is at stake. It’s poor chaps like my brother-in-law, Mehnath Singh Yadav, who are deprived of the chance of raising the rates on jeep repairs and spare parts. What about Thakur Lambemoochwala, who lost a fortune on that fleet of jeeps, subcontracted from his jath wallah in Rajasthan in advance of the election announcement? Only during an election could he have hoped to hire out those battered vehicles for Rs. 900 a day (minus diesel, of course). And let’s not forget about Lala Phulepaitwala and Furfur Mian, who have been hoarding kerosene and diesel in their backyards for just such an occasion. What will happen to their investments?

  And, if that does not convince you of our case, let’s not forget about the children. The poor children. They used to earn 25 paise for every rival’s poster they showed proof of destroying. Who will sustain them now? God alone knows what dishonest activity they may get up to tomorrow!

  15

  JAWAI BABU ZINDABAD!

  FEELING RATHER PLEASED WITH MYSELF FOR HAVING reassured the clansmen, I prepared to ride Chachi off into the sunset the very next morning. But that was not to be.

  As I entered the zenana part of the ancestral house, Ma beckoned me into the depths of her kitchen. First she uncovered a kulhad – that little mug made of mud – of badam milk − my favourite. My antennae immediately went up. Then she reached out behind the wire-meshed closet, in which she protects foodstuffs from marauding flies, and retrieved a naturally cooled pot of sweetened curds. Something was definitely up. And since the way to our hearts − Dadu’s and mine − is through our stomachs, both Bablu ki Dadi and Bablu ki Ma have become masters of the game!

  But I digress. As I greedily scooped up the last of the dahi with my finger, Dadi cleared her throat. Here it comes, I thought. Prepare to say ‘Yes’ or your next meal will be laced with mirchis, the really hot variety!

  I really should have expected what was coming. It was really so predictable. My mother was pareyshan because my sister was pareyshan. And my only sister was worried because her no-good husband − some cruel joke it was to name him ‘Mehnath’ Singh Yadav − was still out of work. The bone-lazy fellow was, himself, not worried about being jobless. He hadn’t done an honest job in his 42-year-old life − except perhaps to marry my sister. It’s my sister who feels he must do something beyond warm the charpoy and get her pregnant!

  Settling Jawai Babu is a family occupation. The first attempt was made immediately after he entered our home, bringing his bride back to her parents. First Dadu approached my mother’s brother, Maama Majburi Singh Yadav.

  Uncle is the showpiece of the family. For the past 20 years, till he retired last year, he had held various coveted posts in the UP Irrigation Department’s office at Etah. What used to impress us, when we were kids, was how he would lie around on his charpoy at home all day, playing teen patti and eating mirch ka pakoras. On the seventh day of every month he would put on his one good suit, his somewhat moth-eaten black socks and those shoes we got ten paise to shine, and go to the office to collect his salary. As years went by Maama perfected the art of doing nothing − reaching the ultimate stage when he was able to sign the form at home and send one of us to collect his pay!

  But Maama’s ingenuity in the region of kaamchori, the shirker, only extended to him. So, much as Jawai Babu would have liked to do his kind of work, there wasn’t another such a job to be had for pyar or paise.

  Maama was, however, somewhat rivaled by Laalmua Khan, from our neighbouring district of Farrukhabad, who spent over 10 years as what he called the ‘Leeson’ Officer of the Kaimganj Fruit Factory − till the unit folded under the weight of government cutbacks. Towards the last few years of its 25-year-old existence the factory − which was supposed to can slices, juices and pulp of the amrud and aam available in abundance in the area − worked more as a job centre than as a production centre. In this whole dubious exercise, Laalmua Khan’s only job was to journey to Lucknow whenever the factory ran out of money to pay salaries. Towards the end, this was becoming a monthly exercise. At which time Khan Chacha took ‘early retirement’, protesting that it took too much of his time and energy!

  Dadu never approved of either Maama’s or Khan Chacha’s approach to work. He continues to believe that a man must work for his living. Actual physical work. Even though he owns fairly extensive potato farmlands and can afford to appoint a man to oversee the work, he still insists on operating the tractor himself. Imagine, while everyone smart enough is inter-cropping amrud and papita with tambacu, Dadu is the only farmer who insists on growing peanuts! But then he is an extreme case − perhaps the reason why I rebelled and ran away to the city to become a taxi driver.

  But that’s another story. And, as usual, I digress.

  Even I must admit to being shocked at the attitude of Jawai Babu. I have tried to help out on several occasions, much to Chachi’s disapproval. Of course, what my old DLY taxi objects to is not his refusal to do an honest day’s work but his rather objectionable habit of unzipping and watering her tyres immediately after each cup of tea we drink between Etawah and New Delhi. Even our pet dog, Tommy, is not allowed to do that at home. But then, Mehnath (damn him) is Jawai Babu ….

  Another time we tried to fix him up was when Dadu called in a debt of honour from Thakur Lambemoochwala’s brother, Thakur Shaitan Singh, whose son-in-law was an important sarkari babu in Kanpur. The man, at an impressive six feet three inches and sporting a handlebar moustache that would scare the dhoti off even your average Mainpuri dacoit, was then a highly placed police official in the UP administration. So the attempt was to get Mehnath Singh into the police fauj.

  To the Thakur’s credit, he came through with flying colours. But it didn’t surprise me that our very own Mehnath could not even make the qualifying round. For all his posturing around the home, Kunwarji had lungs like the inside of a coal factory and the stamina of a chronic consumptive.

  Without informing me, Dadu next decided to approach our local district magistrate. I have little faith in these chaps − especially because I have seen many a politician wipe the floor with their dignity. But to Dadu a visit of the DM or the superintendent of police to our ancestral home remains the highlight of the year − an occasion to be photographed. Even their drivers merit a special cup of tea!

  That request, too, came to nought. On the contrary, the DM asked Dadu to put in a word for him with our famous biradari wallah, who happened to be the chief minister of UP at that time! Since Dadu exercises no influence on him whatsoever, he decided to let his own request slide into a mass of bureaucratic paper work and quietly retreated.

  It was obvious to me, this time − when I was plied with pedas after the sweet curds − that even my sister, who usually has the patience of Mother Teresa, was getting desperate. As her elder brother − and with Ma’s delicious mithai under my belt − tell me what else could I do?

  ‘What about the UP politician you are always boasting about?’ Dadu asked. ‘You keep telling us he has lots of clout in Delhi too. Surely he can come up with something?’ After they collectively started talking about ‘izzat ka sawaal and all that kind of thing I reluctantly gave in. I insisted, however, that Jawai Babu at least meet Trivediji before being considered for the job. ‘Your brother can’t have much clout if he can’t avoid this stupid formality,’ Jawai Babu tried to taunt my sister. But I wasn’t falling for that.

  The interview was, predictably, a disaster. Out of consideration for me, however − and partly to maintain his hefty discount on travel bills Trivediji called up Jain saheb, a small time entrepreneur in the Okhla Industrial Area and instructed him to create a post for Jawaiji.

  ‘What! Only Rs. 7,000 starting salary? Is this what I have spent so much only to come to Delhi?’ was the only reaction of that harami. I was getting really angry. To begin with, I had spent all the money on bringi
ng him across to Delhi. All he had done, all along the journey, was to eat bread pakoras and drink tea and urinate all over Chachi’s tyres!

  Within days we were back on the road again. Trivediji was furious. I was embarrassed. It seems Jain saheb had walked into his factory one day to find Jawai Babu sitting at the boss’s desk, his feet on the table and in a fighting mood. His threat: ‘Give me a raise in salary or my brother-in-law’s politician friend will have this factory closed!’

  The ingrate! Do you wonder that he didn’t last long? And imagine my shock. Instead of apologizing he turned around and demanded that I personally escort him back to the village in Chachi. No bus travel for the likes of him. It would compromise his dignity. This find-a-job business wasted too much time and energy, he declared. Chewing his tobacco and warming his charpoy and getting his wife pregnant was obviously work enough for him!

  16

  WHEN IN DOUBT, POUT!

  LIFE CAN BE PRETTY DULL SOMETIMES. ESPECIALLY IF YOU get one of those multinational corporation executive types, who reads his newspapers and his office files and frowns when you try to make conversation along the journey. So I’m always up for excitement when it comes my way. As it did when Gurcharan assigned me to what he called a ‘secret mission’.

  Did I know a secluded route to Surajkund? he asked.

  ‘Surajkund? Arre bhai,’ I said, ‘don’t I know Surajkund! Don’t you remember how much all of us made hauling ghee and chawal for that Congress political tamasha a few years ago?’ Gurcharan remembered, all right. The tamasha I refer to was that elaborate get-together of the Congress party in 1993, ostensibly to discuss its future. What it really turned out to be was a get-together of disparate groups, within the party, collecting to discuss their individual futures. They repeated that AICC tamasha, again, this year. But, because it was in Bangalore this time, we lost out on all the action.’