Travails with Chachi

by Louise Fernandes Khurshid

  Disappear? As he outlined the plan my horror grew. I looked around, sure that others shared my dismay. Only Dadu had tears in his eyes. He said he would have no part of this plan. I tried to protest and turned to Jawaiji to do the same. But he shrugged his shoulders. His look said it all: that it was all very well for me to protest. I didn’t live there in the heart of the biradari in that small Etawah village. The wishes of the biradari had to be respected.

  All eyes turned to me. There was more pressure in the air than I could bear. To my horror I found my right hand going up. I had added my weight to a decision to burn the man alive in Thakur saheb’s brick kiln…

  The memory of this was too much for me. It was not an event I was proud of.

  While I sat there, with my head in my hands − both in despair of the memory and desperate to blank off Jawai Babu’s incessant chatter − Bablu walked in with his current best friend. Chintu Khurana, whose father owns a chain of electric ware shops in Bhagirath Palace, pounced on the copy of Savera Times and started to gloat. ‘My Dad says the BJP will go to town on this in the coming elections. Every middle class housewife will burn the Congress flag willingly. Jai Sri Ram!’

  ‘Tauba! Tauba,’ Bablu ki Ma immediately said. ‘Why bring the name of god into politics? And you, a young boy, you should be ashamed of yourself.’ Chintu opened his mouth to protest. But he had angered the little lady. ‘And don’t talk about other parties beating the Congress with the Sushil Sharma stick. What business do other parties have to talk? Take the Janata Dal. I hear that in Bihar, man for man, they have more goondas in their party than the Congress has. Even I, who have nothing to do with politics, can tell you that. And what about yesterday’s newspaper report about that terrible man who’s been caught for raping and killing his own daughter? I was ashamed to see that he was originally from our neighbouring district of Farrukhabad and allegedly connected with one of our famous Samajwadi Party leaders.’

  Chintu opened his mouth again. But the lady just wouldn’t stop. ‘And don’t tell me about the BJP. I’m a very religious lady. I spend more than four hours in puja every day. I keep every fast to appease the gods. But I can never condone what the BJP and the Vishwa Hindu Parishad and the Hindu Mahasabha and the Shiv Sena have done in the name of religion. Ask your Uncle Akbar Pasha who works with Bablu’s Papa. He lost ten members of his family, including his baby son, his parents and youngest sister, in those terrible Bombay riots.’

  This time Bablu tried to interrupt but she brushed him aside with a final burst, ‘And I know who was celebrating here in Delhi when that happened. Ask Bablu − I slapped him for the first time in his life when he brought home those celebration ladoos that your uncle was distributing ….’

  I was shocked at the little lady’s fury. Poor Chintu. Why blame him for some foolishness his father or uncle must have fed him? Besides, here we were talking about goonda-gardi, murder and mutilation. Surely this was different from riot-related violence? But Bablu ki Ma was unrelenting. ‘Even in this regard those saffron wallahs have no business to talk. Their chief minister sheds crocodile tears here in Delhi. Will he also cry for the widows of the countless men killed by his own partymen in caste-related incidents in UP?’

  By this time Bablu looked ready to cry. He looked beseechingly at me. His mother may be correct. But did she have to humiliate his friend so openly?

  In the end it was Jawai Babu, of all people, who brought the diversion. He had suddenly remembered the purpose of his visit. A rishta had been fixed for his 19-year-old daughter, Seema, with the eldest son of the wealthiest of our biradari wallahs from neighbouring Shahjehanpur.

  Bablu ki Ma was delighted. And appropriately diverted. ‘Arre, wah!’ she exclaimed. ‘Finally a wedding in the family!’ But Jawai Babu didn’t seem to share the enthusiasm. He looked downright worried. I realized all was not well so I took him aside and asked for some straight talk.

  He was silent for a long time. Then, with bowed head, he mumbled, ‘Seema is resisting the marriage. Says she wants to marry some Muslim boy she knows from college. Dadu, as usual, is being tolerant. But Tau Nakli Singh is furious. He says it’s a matter of izzat. He has called a meeting of the biradari. Some hard decisions are to be taken ….’

  29

  YE HI HAI WRONG CHOICE, BABU, AHA!

  IT WAS THAT TIME OF THE YEAR WHEN OLD BONES CREAK AND joints swell. When clogged drains overflow and every contagious disease comes out to play. When children get wet just for the fun of it and doctors bills go thorough the ceiling. Imagine, in these times, the suffering of a 15-year-old DLY Ambassador taxi whose carburetor constantly floods and whose springs have long since gone. It was just not Chachi’s best season.

  I had just dropped off a savari at the BJP office on Ashoka Road and was turning Chachi’s head towards home when she sputtered and muttered and ground to a halt. This was most embarrassing. There were at least 50 cars around. Was this the time for Chachi to make a point?

  I bowed my head and tried to sneak out of the front passenger door − not an easy thing to do. As I got out I noticed that most of the cars were terribly official looking. Arre, bhai. What was going on here? What was it that Chachi wanted me to see?

  Just then, through the corner of my eye, I spotted a sheepish looking Bablu slinking out of a side exit. Following in his shadow was Chintu Khurana. That surprised me. After last week’s encounter with Bablu’s mother on the subject of criminals and BJP politics I was surprised Chintu was still talking to Bablu. And what, anyway, were they doing here?

  It seems Chintu’s uncle, a big shot in the party organization, was playing host to the lady who had replaced my biradari brother in U.P. Bablu was curious to see who I have been abusing so liberally.

  Before I could catch the rascal by the collar, in drove two cars flying the flag of the tiger. Brakes screeched. Doors slammed. People cheered. From both sides of the cars people poured out. On their foreheads they wore yellow headbands and in their hands they held sheaves of paper. I was quite far so I asked Bablu to sneak in a look. If those were the plans for the demolition of another masjid then I wanted to know in advance which UP city to avoid. No sense in getting in the way of these man-eating tigers!

  Bablu came back looking very puzzled. ‘Papa,’ he said, ‘they are plans all right. But they are not for a religious place. They are for some power plant in Maharashtra.’ I was intrigued. Why was the demolition of a power plant being entrusted to the cadres who boasted of demolishing the Babri Masjid? I asked Bablu to go back and query one particular saffron-clad fellow who looked more impressive than the others. The man’s reply was matter-of-fact. ‘Masjid-shasjid, power plant-shower plant. Same difference. What’s religion got to do with it? This is election year. The idea is to demolish the Congress. The Congress is selling out the country to the vilayati capitalists. Our thrust is in on swadeshi. The ways justify the means.’

  Very strange, I thought. I remember how Dadu used to ridicule the BJP for always looking towards the capitalistic West while his own party, the Indian National Congress, was doing all that ‘Bharat, Russi, bhai, bhai’ business. Since when had the BJP got on the swadeshi bandwagon? I got my answer from the saffron wallah who, by this time, had strolled up to us. He looked suspiciously at Chachi − who had the name ‘Yadav Taxi’ emblazoned boldly on her backside − and said, ‘Commercial or conviction?’ It took a minute to understand that he was asking whether I was there to pick up a fare or to attend the scheduled meeting. I muttered something about being willing to be converted. That seemed to please him no end.

  To get back to my query about swadeshi − my new friend explained that everything had been going along well for his party till Rajiv Gandhi’s enthusiasm literally kidnapped their pro-West policy. Suddenly they found themselves in an election year without a campaign slogan. ‘Fortunately, due to the foolishness of that very same ruling party, and thanks to a little old lady called Shah Bano, we were back in the race. From then onwards nothing went right for the Congress. Even
their knee jerk reaction in opening the gates of the Babri Masjid helped us more than them,’ he gloated.

  I was starting to get very confused. What was the man saying: that a little old Muslim lady called Shah Bano helped the BJP? That didn’t make sense. The Babri Masjid business, however, I understood only too well. I was there when my biradari brother, in his first avatar as UP chief minister, had rebuffed the saffron onslaught. I was also there in Ayodhya on 6 December 1993. Why do you think I said earlier I didn’t want to be near another demolition derby?

  What did confuse me was that, on the one hand, they claimed to have the Hindutva pillar all erected and decorated. But, on the other hand, they were getting distracted with demolishing power projects. I thought the object was to generate power for the BJP and not to demolish it. I tell you, these political fellows are just too devious for the likes of us common folk.

  ‘What’s on?’ I asked the man. He laughed and smirked. ‘Ask me what’s off instead. Ha! Ha! Ha!’ I must have looked puzzled because he hastily added, ‘Enr’on, Enr’off. Get the point?’ I understood immediately. I had read in the newspaper that some American company called ‘Enron’ had tried negotiating with the former Maharashtra government to set up a major power plant. In ‘exchange’ the company offered to spend around 20 million US dollars on ‘educating’ Indians. Dadu had sent me the cutting from the local newspaper along with a list of 50 Yadav children from our village who desperately needed educating. I haven’t been able to find anyone who is in charge of this education programme and where the classes are being conducted …. Obviously these saffron-clad fellows also haven’t been able to locate that education scheme and are pretty upset.

  I had heard my UP politician friend talk furiously on the subject and all that came back to me in a flash. I couldn’t help repeating it. ‘But don’t you think the country will lose face in the world if we cancel that power project? Why not just say you don’t agree with the terms, point out where they are wrong, and demand a re-negotiation?’

  ‘Kyon, bhai saheb,’ the fellow smirked, ‘you’ve got a share-ware in this somewhere?’

  I must say I was willing to have a conversation with the man, though I didn’t like his politics nor his habit of unnecessarily rhyming his words − like share-ware and masjid-shasjid. But this was too much. Coming from the state of UP I am concerned with things like power supply. And if these khaki-knicker wallahs want to get to power in the country, they better start thinking on these lines as well.

  My anger must have shown. The man wiped the smirk off his face and put on a pious mask. ‘What do we need artificial power for? We have our own abundant supply of natural sunshine. Is there any country in the world where you can do a genuine surya namaskar every day of the year? And what do we need these firangi-shirangis for? We have our own mega industrial giants.’

  Aha! Now I got it. This was the perfect election appeal. ‘Support us in our endeavours and we will keep out the competition.’ So this was what all that pious swadeshi business was about: ‘Let’s keep the money in the “family”. Then we can save on research and development because there won’t be anyone around to show up the deficiencies in our system.’ Kya baat hai! What an idea!

  But something about this scheme disturbed me. ‘But what will happen when our fellows want to expand their markets abroad?’ I asked. (This, again, was something Trivediji had said). ‘Surely if we Indians don’t allow foreign investment and products to come in then other countries will be justified in denying us access to markets abroad?’

  The important functionary looked at me dubiously. ‘Kyon, bhai saheb,’ he remarked, ‘Petrol pump ke liye Congress wallon ki chamchagiri-shamchagiri kar rahe hai?’ That did it. Now the man was hitting below the belt. This fellow obviously didn’t have any answers worth the name.

  I decided to test him further. ‘Kyon, bhai saheb,’ I said, ‘you’re trying to improve V. P. Singh’s record of taking the country back 100 years with his Mandal business? Desh ki kismet se khel rahe hai? Tumhe sharam nahi hai?’ The man spat an articulate stream of tambacu juice into the nearest flowerpot and looked at me pityingly. ‘Desh-pesh se kya matlab hai? Kismet-wismet se kya lena dena hai? This is all about elections and winning. And, in these circumstances, this is the only strategy to adopt.’

  And, as he said this, he signaled subtly to the yellow head-banded fellows. They re-tied their head gear, Akshay Kumar style, lined up in formation, waved about those power plants papers and promptly broke into a chorus of:

  ‘Ye hi hai wrong choice, Babu. Aha! Ye hi hai wrong choice, neta. Aha!’

  30

  FRIEND OR FOE?

  I REMEMBER THAT DAY SO CLEARLY − THE DAY THAT MY nephew, Raunaq Singh Yadav, ‘Bachu’, got his call to join the National Defence Academy (NDA).

  Bablu started to look at his country cousin with new respect. Dadu was delighted. And my older chacha, Mahendra Singh Yadav, ‘Fauji’, who had lost an arm and a leg in the 1971 Indo-Pak conflict, immediately started firing his twelve bore shotgun in the air. At last someone in the family to impart his famous advice about the army, ‘If it’s stationary, paint it. If it moves, salute it!’

  Even Bablu ki Ma looked impressed. ‘That Mehnath Singh hasn’t done an honest day’s work in his life. But he’s redeemed himself with this one.’ Strangely enough my sister, Bachu’s mother, didn’t seem to share our enthusiasm. In fact she looked downright worried. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t you happy to be contributing your bit to the national effort? A son in the army, defending our people from the enemy! I would die happy if my son, Bablu, looked in that direction.’

  All this talk about national effort seemed to leave her cold. ‘What national effort? What enemy?’ she burst out. ‘You think calling out the army to man the streets in Bombay or Ahmedabad or Muzaffarnagar should be part of the national effort? You think those little children in Kashmir are the enemy?’

  I was really surprised. This much of wisdom coming from a village woman whose studies had stopped the year she reached puberty? I was most impressed. I sat her down and tried to explain that even in these things she talked about there lurked the hidden hand of the enemy. ‘We shall overcome,’ I said. ‘But for that we need some brave warriors. Bachu has been chosen. You should be proud.’

  That night I took Bablu ki Ma aside and told her to counsel Pushpa. If there’s one person my sister really likes and respects it’s the little lady. As a result it was one happy family that put Bachu on the Kalindi Express bound for New Delhi and then onwards to Khadakvasla, near Pune, for his training.

  With tears in his eyes Dadu placed his hand on Bachu’s head and prayed. Fauji Chacha, with a twinkle in his, offered the lad a Panama cigarette. Mehnath stopped chewing paan for long enough to whisper something in Bachu’s ear. (I managed to overhear part of the advice − it was something about ‘using protection.’) A much-recovered Pushpa beamed throughout. And Bablu ki Ma, as usual, produced this enormous parcel of alu parathas, aam ka achar and bhel pathar ka sherbet for the journey.

  Two years later Bachu returned home for a visit. Coincidentally we, too, were in the village for the holidays. Bachu had finished four grueling terms − two tough years − at the academy and was now in a position to bid for the service of his choice. For an average student of Mission School, Etawah, he had done remarkably well and informed us that he stood a good chance of getting exactly what he opted for − the army.

  ‘Arre, bhai,’ Mehnath said, ‘you should have chosen the air force. I am told a lot of young fellows are qualifying to fly at government expense and then quietly getting out from the back door to get jobs with private airlines. They pay over one lakh rupees per month. What a salary!’

  I could see that Bachu, fully imbued with the nationalistic spirit of the Academy, looked more dismayed than impressed. He sarcastically said, ‘Papa, retired army officers can earn even more as liaison men for arms dealers.’ Rather than being upset with the sarcasm, Mehnath took him at face value and was deli
ghted. ‘Good thinking,’ he said, thumping Bachu on the back. ‘Yes, yes. I hear these fellows fly even higher than the airline pilots do. Good thinking, good thinking.’

  Once again my sister looked worried. I said to her, ‘Bahut ho gaya. Bachu has come back after so long. The least you can do is look happy to see him again. Will you always go around with your face in a twist?’

  ‘Bhaiya,’ she said, ‘I am worried about where he will go. What if he is given some border posting and has to face the enemy almost immediately?’ Mehnath, who was hanging around, butted in. ‘You stupid cow!’ he said. ‘You are worrying about all the wrong things. Worry more about which wing of the army he is given and which regiment he reports to. What if he is given the Signals or Medical Corps rather than Armoured Corps or Artillery? Think about that.’ (You fool, I wanted to say. You have to be a doctor to be given the Medical Corps. But there is no reasoning with our idiotic Jawai Babu).

  ‘What if he is given the Supply Corps or Ordnance?’ he continued. But even as he spoke, he corrected himself. ‘Well, maybe these two won’t be too bad. I hear lots of purchases are done through these departments. Good prospects for making money.’

  Even as we spoke Bachu came running in, a broad beam on his face. ‘I got my choice,’ he shouted. ‘I got my choice.’ It had turned out even better than we could hope for. The telegram was from his best friend. The lists were up. Bachu had been selected to join the Rajput Regiment, with its Regimental Centre at none other than our neighbouring district of Farrukhabad. Talk about good luck!