Travails with Chachi

by Louise Fernandes Khurshid

  ‘And what do you think,’ Gurcharan interrupted my recollections, ‘the man wanting your taxi is the same man who hired it the last time. No, not the food contractor. The neta type.’

  I was delighted. I particularly remember those people − a gang of around six people who made me drive up and down the Tughlaqabad Range (near which Surajkund is located) while they planned some dharna of sorts. Among them was a fair, light-eyed gentleman, wrapped up in a Pashmina shawl. I think they called him ‘havaldar’ or ‘dafedar’ or something-similar sounding. I’m not so sure, though. Then there was this round, prematurely greying lady, who reminded me of Bablu ki Ma. I recognized her immediately because she had been politically active in Kannauj, which falls in my neck of the UP woods. A trifle unsuccessfully, though. There was another of them − a dapper, also greying, gentleman − who wore some very colourful socks marked ‘Gucci’, or something like that. They kept calling him ‘Ambassador saheb’. One other made an impression − a slim gentleman who they referred to as a holy man − ‘Jogi’ or ‘Yogi’, I think was his name. I remember him well because of the different hats he kept switching when they played some game called ‘Caste-Go-Round’. When they called out ‘Christian’ one hat went on; when they called out ‘tribal’ on went another. Intriguing!

  But the man who stood out most prominently was this slightly stooped human resource of a gentleman, who kept picking up guns and firing from the shoulders of the others whenever Chachi approached the Tughlaqabad Firing Range. But, interestingly, when he neared the venue of the great political tamasha, the man would hide his gun, bow his head low and say: ‘When in doubt, pout! When in doubt, pout!’ Does that make any sense to you?

  There were four other men who − strangely − seemed to be spying both on this group and on each other. Among them were two tall handsome dhoti-clad men. Singers, I think they were, because my passengers kept referring to them as the ‘Jugal Bandhu’ or ‘Shukal Bandhu’, or something like that. Another walked with a distinctive air. And I noticed that whenever ordinary folk went within one hundred yards of him they bowed deep and said: ‘Maharaj.’ I thought the fourth looked a little green behind the gills. (He even had an environmentally friendly name like ‘Kamal’, that is.) He shared with all the others a concern about the environment − the political environment around Madhya Pradesh.

  All this came back to me in a flash as I prepared Chachi for a long, bumpy ride. I was curious to see who had turned up this time. Pity, the Bablu ki Ma look-alike and the Gucci socks wallah were missing. The holy man was nowhere around. Instead, an equally exalted personage took his place. (Bablu, who recognized his face from photographs in the newspaper, said he was referred to by the Congress ‘Establishment’ as ‘Pandit Bimari’.) I thought that was very unfair because − what with his ruddy cheeks and ample paunch − there was nothing sick looking about him.

  The target practiser, of course, was back. Since he was going to pay the bills I greeted him with open arms. What I especially liked was when he asked me to take them for a short ride. I’d heard so much about these netas taking us common folk for a ride that I was more than willing to turn the tables on them!

  I couldn’t help notice that each time Chachi passed a neem tree the man would take out his rifle and take a pot shot. And every time we passed a farmer carrying his vegetables to market he would fire in the air and cause the man to spill the beans. But each time we passed the venue of that last great tamasha at Surajkund − and even though the ground had been swept from under our feet − he would bow low and say: ‘When in doubt, pout! When in doubt, pout!’

  Funny thing is, each time he said this he would ask me to stop, take out a bottle of mineral water and frantically wash his hands.

  Looking at him protesting his innocence and repeatedly washing his hands reminded me of this drama that Bablu’s school put up last year. Something called ‘Muckbooth’, written by some firangi holy man called ‘Shakes Peer’. It seems this Muckbooth fellow was what Bablu ki Ma would call a very ‘proudy’ man. Though he was not the king of the land he very much wanted to be so. He was convinced he would triumph because some astrologers (in whom he believed a lot) had told him he could only be defeated by a man ‘plucked out of his mother’s womb’. Now, it seemed to me logical to believe that a baby plucked out of his mother’s stomach (which, I presume, ‘womb’ means) is bound to be dead. So this Muckbooth character was justified in convincing himself that no one would stop him.

  The problem was that this chap lacked in guts. So his wife − a Phoolan Devi type − really burnt a mirchi under his shorts and forced him to pick up a dagger and stab the king in the back. But, after doing so, the lady’s guilty conscience started playing up. She started having trouble sleeping and kept imagining blood on her hands. So she kept washing them while repeatedly saying: ‘Out, out, damn spot.’

  Now, you are going to ask me, what relevance does this ridiculous story have at this point? No mystery. It seems this firangi peer was too smart for words. Did you know that ‘child plucked from the womb’ is really a caesarean case? As for what this story has to do with us − well, though his boss apparently survived the back-stabbing attempt during that last tamasha, my stooped friend did seem to wash his hands a bit too often ….

  We reached Surajkund as night fell upon us. There wasn’t much there in the way of entertainment − at least nothing I was interested in. So bed it was. To a very restless night.

  The first interruption came when my friend, the champion hand washer, started shouting: ‘One man, one post!’ That made sense. Try putting two guards in the confines of one sentry post and one is bound to shoot the other in the foot!

  As the night wore on another shout went up. It was the man again − and he wasn’t announcing lottery prizes. He shouted: ‘Another battle has been lost at Panipat. The leadership of the old man is not working. It’s time to change the guard!’

  I couldn’t sleep. Maybe the foam mattress was too soft for comfort. Maybe I was missing the little lady. I got up and took a turn in the open. To my surprise my friend was also awake and restless. He kept pacing up and down, the index finger on his right hand twitching on the trigger of what he called a GATT-ling gun.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘Can’t you sleep?’

  ‘The Holocaust is coming,’ he said, fearfully. ‘The battle has now even been lost on the Deccan Plateau and our commander-in-chief still pretends nothing has happened. Worse still, he is willing to sell the interests of our country to this firangi contractor called “Uncle Dunkel” who is threatening to cut down all our Indian neem trees. Nobody is willing to see the light. They all sing praises of his so-called enlightened “liberalization policy” and are blind to its pernicious fall-out. Would you not be worried?’

  He really did sound sincere. I was most impressed. ‘That’s terrible,’ I said. ‘But then I presume you − as a prominent member of the Old Man’s cabinet − must have registered your voice of protest when these measures were being adopted in the first place?’

  The man started to look uncomfortable. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I had wanted to. But my astrologers told me the time was not right. But,’ he added, almost in after thought, ‘I have been protesting against our party’s loss of minority support. And I’m shocked at how we simply allowed that 450-year-old Babri Masjid to come down.’

  I started to get confused here. As far as I could remember this was the same man who, on 3 December 1992 − three days before the mosque was brought down − publicly expressed his satisfaction with the arrangements of the local BJP government to protect the mosque from destructive elements. And certainly at the time I was having this conversation with him it was over two years since the mosque came down! And he was still a part of the Establishment!

  ‘And the corruption! The terrible corruption! I can’t take it anymore!’ The man was still speaking. But at this point even I couldn’t take it anymore. It was obvious to me that the ‘only fruit juice’ he carried around in his hip
flask was made of very sour grapes. It was also obvious that he was more concerned with his own future than that of you and I. And it was even more obvious that he was desperate to become the Top Boss himself. Perhaps he had managed to fool his own political chamchas, and a section of the media, into believing his motives were pure. But surely he didn’t think he could fool a UP taxi driver so easily? ‘Did you say your home town was Churhat?’ was all it took for the left side of his mouth to start twitching uncontrollably ….

  While he twitched he frantically looked around for some water. And I couldn’t help overhearing him mutter under his breath: ‘Out, out damn pout! Out, out, damn pout!’

  17

  A NIGHT OF LONG KNIVES

  AFTER THAT RATHER TIRING, AND TIRESOME, JOURNEY I wanted nothing more than to take a few days off and sleep. Perhaps even spend some time with the little lady when Bablu was at school. You know what I mean. But trust my family to queer the pitch once again.

  I returned from Surajkund late at night only to find Bablu ki Ma in a belan-bashing mood – sour and mean and generally avoidable. The reason was all too obvious. Another telegram from the village. The clansmen beckoned once again.

  This must be serious, I thought. Hadn’t I returned only two weeks ago!

  Bablu refused to go to school the next morning and the little lady had taken out her temper on some very hapless chapatis that had been beaten out of shape. Why could I not tell her the nature of my job this time? she kept demanding.

  What could I say? This was a job I could only share with Chachi. It was another clandestine meeting of the clan. I didn’t want Bablu ki Ma to worry in case the meeting turned stormy and the decision we took called for a night of long knives.

  But the little lady took an educated guess anyway. ‘This is getting too much,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it’s that Tau of yours. Just the other day he called an emergency meeting. And, as you yourself grumbled, it didn’t turn out to be an emergency after all. I’m sure this one is also for some silly reason. That chacha of yours is always looking for an excuse to make speeches.’

  I, myself, was a trifle clueless as to the nature of the crisis till I reached the village and heard Tau speak. ‘The honour of the clan has been sullied,’ he said. ‘For years now we have been suppressed, downtrodden, discriminated against. It’s time to get our act together and demand our rights!’

  ‘Discriminated against? But we are Backwards, not Untouchables!’ I exclaimed. ‘How are we being discriminated against and by whom?’

  ‘Untouchables?!’ Dadu roared. Dadu, who always seems to be around when we politically conscious fellows want to get down to business, was obviously furious. His Gandhi topi wobbling frantically as he shook his head with indignation, he shouted, ‘The word is “Scheduled Caste” or “Harijan” and not “Untouchable”. Is this what living in the city has taught you?’

  That had, indeed, been a stupid slip of the tongue. In fact, since coming to Delhi, I truly feel that people in the village are much more conscious about things like caste and creed. To this day I don’t know whether Gurcharan Singh is a ‘Jat’ or ‘Mazhabi’ Sikh. I know Ramesh Babu, like Joseph Pinto, is from Karnataka. But I still have not asked whether he is a ‘Brahmin’ or a ‘Lingayat’ or a ‘Vokkaliga’. And I certainly don’t know what Pinto’s family was over 500 years ago before their conversion.

  So that really was a stupid, unnecessary, slip of the tongue.

  What I do know is that I have never felt downtrodden or discriminated against. I’ve grown up with the plenty that Dadu’s potato fields and guava orchards have generated each year. The family of my brother-in-law, Mehnath Singh, own extensive mango and caronda orchards. Why, Tau Nakli Singh himself is proud maalik of two houses, one Maruti Gypsy, two Mahendra jeeps and one hundred acres of prime sugarcane fields. Does that sound like downtrodden to you?

  But to return to the meeting. As I spoke, a bunch of giggling schoolboys, led by Mehnath’s youngest son, started shouting:

  Tilak, tarazu, talwar aur chamar,

  sab ko maro joota chaar!

  Tilak, tarazu, talwar aur chamar,

  sab ko maro joota chaar!

  ‘Yes,’ roared Tau, ‘we may be well off in terms of money. But where do we stand in the bureaucratic hierarchy? Where do we stand in terms of education? In terms of government jobs?’

  Now, my idea of ‘discrimination’; was Ram Saran Jatav not being allowed to eat at the same table as Dadu at the wedding of our local Panditji’s daughter. What was ‘suppression’ was my chacha’s archrival, Mote Singh Yadav, paying his indentured labour from Bihar with handfuls of dhaan even to this day! What was ‘downtrodden’ was the Harijan tola being located at the garbage end of the village. Since when were we Yadavs − with our tally of two chief ministers, countless past and present state and Union ministers, landowners of substantial holdings, bank managers, IAS and IPS officers − discriminated against, downtrodden and suppressed?

  By this time Tau realized he had made a mistake calling me to this meeting. He summoned me to stop and signaled to the bachcha brigade. ‘Tilak, tarazu, talwar aur chamar, sub ko maro joota chaar!’ they chanted, drowning out my protests.

  Suddenly there was a loud thump on the floor. It was Bhayankar Singh Yadav, leader of the local ‘geng’ and, I hasten to add, no relative of mine. ‘Forget about those Harijans. Not only have they had enough of a handicap over the past 50 years, they also have people quite capable of looking after their interests. Besides, they don’t deserve our sympathy. Ingrates that they are!’

  ‘Ingrates? How so?’ I asked. ‘Have you thought of why there was such high polling from Harijan villages this time when, in the past, they wouldn’t even have got beyond the village boundaries?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you remember how Ram Saran Jatav begged us to alert the district magistrate about the Thakur gengs which fired bullets in the early morning air to frighten the Harijans into staying at home on Election Day? Let’s face it, they managed to cast their vote this time only because they had the physical protection of a strong caste like us Yadavs.’

  Too true, I thought. I, too, had figured this out. But why did that make them ‘ingrates’?

  ‘Because,’ the dacoit king explained, ‘instead of being grateful for that protection, their leaders − that Kanshi Ram and his companion Phoolan-Devi-type − have been going around boasting that it was their ‘committed votes’ that brought our biradari brother, Mulayam Singh Yadav, to power. Is that fair, I ask you?’

  Perhaps not. But that still did not answer my initial question about why we, as a community, needed a larger share of the social and economic pie. Why, even my own extended family − with our average of over ten hectare holdings − was certainly floating on a creamy layer of the Backward Caste pie.

  ‘You think too much,’ Tau said. ‘That’s the trouble with you fellows from the city. This is exactly what these upper caste chaps want to make us do − to quarrel amongst ourselves. Don’t preach to us about the higher interests of the nation. We don’t need lectures from you city people, with your American blue jeans and Coca Cola. How can the interest of the nation be served if we are not able to safeguard our own identity as a community?’

  I could see that Tau was on a roll. I wanted to interrupt but in the village even I, Madath Singh Yadav, know my place in the age line-up. Help came from an unexpected quarter. Dadu, who still zealously guards the Indian flag which had been draped on the coffin of his favourite uncle − Bharat Singh Yadav, who died in the Indo-China war of 1962 − started to pay attention. ‘What is this nonsense about caste and creed?’ he asked. ‘Jawai Babu, did you ask for a caste certificate when your mother had that heart operation? And if that blood that went into her was known to be from a person of another caste and none else was available, would you have let her die?’

  That was hitting quite close to the bone. But that certainly made everyone sit up. Mehnath’s mother, as my sister would sadly testify, was the real love of his life. Even after bearing him three s
ons, my sister is not able to say she comes first in Mehnath’s affections and attentions. His son started the bachcha chorus again but was promptly silenced by the embarrassed father. Well, that sorted him out!

  But Tau Nakli Singh was not to be stopped. Why was he protesting so much? I wondered. The answer was literally around the corner − at the home of Ram Saran Jatav, who had been beating Tau at the pradhani elections term after term. To Tau’s credit he could have made a good pradhan. The problem was, in all the years that he had been pradhan, Ram Saran’s own home remained the same cowdung-floored, four-roomed dwelling, whereas, at the end of the one and only time that Tau had won, his assets grew visibly faster than the village roads he was supposed to supervise!

  I started to say something. But before I could think of a way to criticize without making Tau lose too much face, I was saved − much to my surprise − by the bachcha brigade, shouting:

  Tilak, tarazu, talwar aur chamar,

  Sab ko maro joota chaar!

  Tilak tarazu, talwar aur chamar,

  Sab ko maro joota chaar!

  18

  ZAMANA BADAL GAYA

  ‘YOU’VE GOT TO STOP ALL THIS FREE SEVA,’ THE LITTLE LADY said when I returned home two days later. ‘If it’s not your Tau then it’s your saaley saheb or Dadu or Chacha or any nikamma who strolls in from the village. Oh, and let’s not forget about Gurcharan and Ramesh Babu and Akbar Pasha and Joseph Pinto and Reddy and Murli bhai. What about us − your own flesh and blood? When will you start to worry about us?’