In the end, fate and circumstances snatched away both the Boss and his son. Both characters gave a public appearance of grief. But their blood still called for revenge.
Imagine, therefore, their frustration when they returned to the capital only to find that the seat they had so longed for was already occupied by a person they had always dismissed as a spent bullet. Imagine their further frustration when it became clear that it was only the Family they had vowed to destroy which could help them gain victory.
They made a quick calculation. Call a temporary halt to revenge. First combine northern forces to push back this southern onslaught. In truth they did not expect any great fight. This new incumbent was a mild-mannered man who loved books more than blood. And what use was his knowledge of two dozen languages when he knew not the language of war?
What they forgot was the other lesson of history. Mahatma Gandhi, too, was a well-read mild-mannered gentleman, who knew not the language of war.
That’s as far as I got figuring out the story. It was most frustrating. ‘How will this end?’ I begged Bablu to tell me.
He said, ‘Wait for the main event.’ But there was a look of confusion on his face. I’m convinced that at that point he, too, did not know how this would end.
When I last peeped in there was a side war going on between the two characters for top billing. The sets were strewn with life-size cut outs and streams of press briefings and wasted dialogues and trampled innocent bystanders. The Thakur-type was demanding that he should be the top gun because a warrior always led the troops into battle and to the victor should go the spoils. The pandit type, however, kept going into a huddle with other pandit types (of which there were hoards crowding the sets).
This was getting ridiculous! These chaps really needed a helping hand.
I barely said that when a loud cheer went up. Bablu came and hugged me and everyone started offering me mithai. What had I said to get this respect? I asked. ‘Helping hand. Wah! Wah! What an idea!’ Bablu exclaimed. ‘I told you my Papa is not so stupid.’
Everyone on set started smiling again. But it seems our two heroes now had another problem. Who would be the first to grasp that helping hand? They started to eye each other warily and their troops started to get restive again.
This was getting interesting. How would it be resolved?
Just then the baby face rolled his body onto the set and declared, ‘I think we should stop deviating from the script?’
‘What script?’ demanded the Thakur. ‘I never wrote any script. What business did you have to write a script when I was preparing the troops for battle? What beimani is this?’ The pandit folded his hands in pray − or was it benediction − and said, ‘Let the people decide.’
‘What people?’ Thakur saheb shouted. ‘I don’t see any people around.’ Panditji beamed benignly. He reached into his flowing white robes and pulled out a little black address book and pulled out a cellular telephone from his inside coat pocket. (I must say Bablu’s props were good).
And before the Thakur could draw his sword, a bevy of beauties rushed on the set waving placards and shouting: ‘Ye haath mujhe de de, Thakur. Ye haath mujhe de de, Thakur.’
27
SIFARISH KA KAMAAL!
MOST TRAVEL WALLAHS WILL TELL YOU THAT THE GOOD season is from September to March. At least where the North of India is concerned. As a DLY taxi driver I should agree. But, thanks to my ‘extra curricular’ political inclinations, I operate on bonus time. Aside from the holiday season my own stock goes high at two other prime times − election season and the school selection stretch.
It seems a lot of people have discovered that the way to my UP politician friend, Trivediji’s, heart is through his over drawn taxi service account. And who better to hold this key than Madath Singh Yadav, who has not been paid in over three years! This, favour seekers conclude, gives me a hold over the man.
Okay, so what? Perhaps some election ticket seekers could get lucky. But what’s this got to do with school and college admissions? Easy. In this sifarish strangled capital city of ours just being within breathing distance of an important person is considered to be an ace up your sleeve.
By that token I, too, can take out membership of the ‘PBC’ − Power Brokers Club. Thanks to Jawai Babu, who has taken to full time dalali as an excuse for work, I have a regular stream of clients from back home in Etawah. The most generous of them is Mukhtiar Khan, Dadu’s friend Laalmua Khan’s nephew.
Mukhtiar’s son is now quite grown up but I remember the time when he was to be sent away to boarding school. Mohammad Muzaffar, ‘Chote Mian’, demanded to be sent to Bablu’s prestigious school here in Delhi. Papa Mukhtiar had no choice.
Mukhtiar is the undisputed strongman of the local teeransport (transport). He owns three teerucks (trucks), handles bookings for 10 others in his own khandaan and transports the highest quality of alu, amrud and aam to the most varied of destinations. His wife, Mukhtaraneesa Begum is the daughter of the richest man of the biradari − always referred to as ‘Bambai Seth’ − whose overnight climb from rags to riches in the last 20 years since he has been in Bombay is much speculated about.
Chote Mian is the only son after a line of eight little Mukhtaraneesas and, naturally, is the apple of his Abbu’s eye. Not for him the local paathshala with the taat mats on the floor and the non-existent teaching staff. While his sisters suffered this indignity, little Chote had been sent to the only angrezi school in the locality, (with the improbable name of ‘Saint Giri’) where he actually wore a uniform and brought back homework.
Mukhtiar’s humility and his acceptance of his own inadequacy were more than countered by the second persistent caller, Jhaji, a petty neta from our neighbouring state of Bihar, who rushed to the stand to introduce me to the apple of his eye. First he cursed then he pleaded. Imagine his frustration. His son’s Class 10 results should have taken him straight to the top. The problem was that the scores in that Begusarai school testua − where betua Gopal babua had received a ‘little guidance’ from a helpful (but quite corrupt) invigilator − just didn’t seem to repeat themselves in any attempt in Delhi University.
I’m told that when he was first informed his son didn’t make the grade, our Bihari babua threatened to give a contract hit to someone called Kali Pandey. The fellow is apparently some local Mafia boss who flirted with politics the last time there was a local election in his state. His symbol was the elephant and his most ‘effective’ slogan went: ‘Mohar lagaye haathi pur. Ya goli kao chaati pur’!! Vote for me, or get a bullet through your chest.
It didn’t, however, take long for the hawa to go out of our Bihar babua − as long as it took to turn his head and see the very same Mafia boss’s own nephew standing in the queue!
‘I think threats may not work here,’ he conceded to me. So he was willing to settle for the next best thing: sifarish.
Needless to say there was something in it for me besides the taxi fare. So, armed with these two requests, I approached my UP neta friend.
What can I say? My self-importance didn’t last very long.
As I got ready to knock at the door I heard a familiar voice. It was Thakur Lambemoochwala. I had introduced him to the neta on his last visit to the capital. A red-faced neta it was who opened the door. And an equally red-faced Thakur it was who bristled his moustaches as he stormed out. ‘Imagine the cheek of your neta friend,’ the Thakur burst out. ‘He insists that my grandchild does some rubbish entrance test. If he has to pass a test then why should I come to these neta types in the first place?’
My neta friend was understandably perturbed. He was not to know that I had already taken a commission on that admission − which gave the Thakur such courage to speak. Poor fellow, he already had enough of his own constituency people making similar demands on him − for free − without my contacts pushing him to the wall.
I, myself, was witness to one such encounter. Again the demand was for an admission and again for waiver of the test – t
hough at a branch of the Delhi public schools and not at the Delhi University level. It was Ram Pujan Jatav, one of his main scheduled caste workers, demanding to know why the ‘miracle of democracy’ had not reached these elitist schools in Delhi. Why, when the world was willing to smile on greats like Kanshi Ram and Mayawati, did these schools not have a reservation category?
Trivediji had tried to explain that good results did matter and that schools were very keen to maintain high standards at the Board exams. But Ram Pujan was not impressed. ‘Why do results matter when later on in life the reservation policy will ensure my children get jobs with the most minimum of marks anyway?’ he demanded to know.
Poor Trivediji! While Ram Pujan demanded a reservation policy and Thakur Lambemoochwala threatened to draw his gun, our common friend Pandit Bimari came at him with a different sort of ammunition. ‘It’s time that these “convent” schools stop taking their instructions from Rome,’ he said. ‘It’s time these nuns and priests packed their bags and went back to vilayat. Wait till I get our Shakti Sena organized. We’ll run these foreigners out of our country.’
What a convenient memory Panditji has, I thought. Like I, he was a product of the mission school at Etawah and he knew fully well that most missionaries these days − especially from our neck in the woods − were from one hundred per cent Indian stock.
But all that was besides the point here. The school in question was the one that Bablu, my own beta, goes to. And DPS is no convent. ‘Oh!’ said an embarrassed pandit. ‘Galti ho gaya, bhai saheb.’
But he recovered fast enough. I thought I saw the last of him when he took a ride to the BJP office near the Gol Dak Khana. He got off muttering, ‘If I don’t get that admission painlessly I will tell my party wallahs to cut off recognition to the school. Or at least their bijli pani.…’
While all these disappointed parents and grandparents raved and ranted and queued outside my friend’s government-issue house, I caught sight of one slim, bell-bottom trousered lad leaning against Chachi’s ample bulk. As I stood there, trying to catch his eye, the fellow filed the nail on his right index finger and carelessly spat paan juice on my precious Chachi’s back tyre. What did he want and why was he smirking so smugly? I asked.
‘You chaps have it all figured wrong,’ he said. ‘Sifarish doesn’t work anymore. This is the age of liberalization − full rupee convertibility and a free market economy. In other words: cold cash.’ I tried to protest that this wasn’t entirely true. Ten years earlier the little lady and I had secured admission in DPS R. K. Puram for Bablu without exchanging a single rupee. Even at that point I knew of countless cases where no money changed hands and no sifarish counted.
But before I could open my mouth Mukhtiar bhai and Jhaji from Bihar were already exchanging cards with the smug lad.
‘This doesn’t work in Delhi’s private schools,’ I called out to them. ‘We’re looking for two college admissions and not your precious DPS,’ they called back. I revved Chachi’s engine and beat a hasty retreat.
Was I surprised with the outcome of that encounter? Not at all. I have been a DLY taxi driver in Delhi for long enough not to bat an eyelid at any scam that the newspapers scream about.
Indeed, it was a very embarrassed Mukhtiar bhai who rang my doorbell a week later. ‘You’ve got to help me,’ he pleaded. ‘It is my izzat ka sawaal.’ In his hand was an envelope that contained wads of money. What was the problem? It seems this tout had introduced both him and Jhaji to a clerk in the college office who had promised to get a certain examiner to fill in any blanks on the computerized entrance test paper that Aslam (‘Chote Mian’) Khan and Anuj (‘Ajju betua’) Jha, their respective children, attempted. The fee was set and the money changed hands.
Just before Chote Mian went into the examination room, Mukhtiar bhai took him aside and said: ‘Since we are paying such a lot of money you might as well not fill in any of the blanks. That way the “fixed” examiner will fill in all the right answers and you’ll be the first on the list.’
So what then was the problem? Why did Mukhtiar bhai look ready to cry?
He lifted the edge of his long kurta, wiped the sweat off his face and blurted out, ‘Imagine my horror. After the boy had gone into the hall and half the exam was supposed to be over, that tout strolled up to me and returned my money. It seems his clerical contact in the school office could only pull off three such cases.’
Jhaji’s son Ajju was at No. 3 and Mukhtiar bhai’s Chote Mian fourth on the list ….
28
TANDOORI NIGHTS
THERE IS NO MORE FRIGHTENING SIGHT THAN AN OVERweight, angry housewife brandishing a belan and threatening blue murder! Bablu ki Ma gets into this mood some times. And when she does I pray to Phoolan Devi for mercy and keep a safe distance.
The last time this happened I was completely unprepared. Arre, Madath Singh, I told myself, think hard. This is not just a case of forgetting to bring home the sabzi. Think hard.
Before I could start apologizing for unremembered sins I caught a glimpse of what she held in the other hand. It was the front page of the Savera Times. And the headline screamed more than blue murder. I should have known the effect that the ‘tandoori kaand’ would have on the little lady. Even I, with all the bravado of the badlands flowing in my veins, still feel queasy remembering the gory details.
‘You men!’ Bablu ki Ma burst out. ‘You loafers! You tomcats! You ….’ Before she could continue I reminded her that Bablu ki Dadi was somewhere in the house and she may not like to hear such language from her bahu. But the rolling pin was swinging away and the little lady just wouldn’t stop.
I listened for a while. Best to let these women let off steam once in a while. But I drew the line when she started to blame me for that Sushil Sharma fellow’s horrible deeds. What did I, Madath Singh Yadav, have to do with some youth politician deciding to barbeque his wife?
‘What about all those night drives Trivediji and his chamchas hire you for? What about all those wayside motels? What about all those voluptuous choris who seem to work only at night?’ She was unstoppable.
What was I, a mere DLY taxi driver, to do? How could I doubt my politician friend when, each time we went on such an expedition, he would assure me the purpose was ‘strictly business’? Who was I to doubt the respectability of the ladies who accompanied us? And what was Bablu ki Ma now screaming about? Whenever I myself made wisecracks about ‘ladies of easy virtue’ she would pick up the belan and accuse us men of having warped minds.
These women! You just can’t win with them!
Just as I was trying to get my defence in action, my sister’s no-good husband walked in. That was enough to throw the little lady off her stride. If there is one person she actively dislikes it is Jawai Babu. (If he isn’t getting my sister pregnant he is beating her up. Sometimes both.)
Ever since this lawyer lady moved into our neighbourhood, Bablu ki Ma has become a very liberated city dweller. She spends one morning each week making chai and alu ka parathas for some organization called Saheli, which the lawyer lady advises for free. And each time she returns home it is with another story about how we men are exploiting women. I’ve tried to argue that the ladies may also be to blame but she won’t hear of it. Even now, I tried telling her that the girl who got barbequeued may have been of easy virtue and may have walked into a bad situation. But she was not willing to listen. ‘It’s you men who are always to blame,’ she kept repeating.
‘Blame for what?’ Jawai Babu butted in. Before I could answer he spied the Savera Times headline. ‘Arre, bhai,’ he said, ‘what’s all this fuss about? The trouble with you city fellows is that you don’t know how to do things right. Frankly, if it were my wife who was fooling around I, too, would have killed her. Only thing is I wouldn’t have been so stupid as to burn her in a tandoor. There is always the river − praise be its sanctity. But if you’re afraid that the river gives up her dead then why not the “batta”, the brick kiln?’
‘Tauba! Tauba!
’ the little lady exclaimed. ‘Pavitra Ganga Ma ka apmaan kar rahe ho! And the idea of burning a body in a brick kiln! How could you even suggest such a thing?’
Jawai Babu looked at me. I couldn’t look him back in the eye. I thought he had forgotten that incident. But the harami cheez obviously had a better memory than I credited him with.
It had happened the year Bablu was born. I had returned home in response to a frantic telegram from Dadu. Tau Nakli Singh Yadav’s shedow, his personal security guard, had been caught fooling around with my cousin, Sumitra. I personally believed her when she swore nothing had happened beyond some innocent hand holding behind the cowshed. But Tau was then the head of the biradari − Dadu having abdicated the day Tau became pradhan − and his izzat was on the line. He may have settled for dismissing the offending fellow with a bullet in his foot. But the man made the ultimate mistake − he offered to marry Sumitra.
I tried to reason with Tau. Okay, so the man wasn’t a Yadav. Or even a backward caste man. But at least he was not a Jatav or a Muslim. (These, I hasten to add, are not my own sentiments. But this, unfortunately, is the only kind of language that Tau understands.) Tau was not impressed. He called the biradari together. Some hard decisions were to be taken .…
I tried to raise my hand, but Tau cast one baleful look in my direction and Dadu pressed my hand in warning. Suddenly I spotted Tau’s friend, Thakur Lambemoochwala, sitting behind him. This surprised me. I had never known an outsider to the biradari being called for such a meeting. Something was definitely up. Just then Tau turned to Thakur Saheb and, after the initial introductions, beckoned him to speak. Thakur’s proposition was simple. The shedow had stepped out of line. It was a matter of ‘face’. He had to disappear.
Travails with Chachi Page 14
