Travails with Chachi

by Louise Fernandes Khurshid

  But then he pulled out a five-page document entitled ‘Development Works to be Done’, and that threw me off guard. Perhaps I had misjudged my friend after all.

  The embarrassment, however, didn’t last long. As I flipped the pages it became all too clear. The list of ‘development works’ started with the immediate transfer of his local district magistrate and SSP, continued to include a request for sanction of a petrol pump to his brother-in-law, an LPG agency in his wife’s name, a license to run two private buses between Lucknow and Delhi, via Etawah, and went on and on in this vein.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes! This was development work? What kind of nonsense was this? My friend looked at me and, with amused indulgence, said, ‘This is why you still remain a DLY taxi driver and I, at five years younger, am sitting in the Rajya Sabha. Of course this is development work. Do you realize that, because our village doesn’t have a gas agency close by, the poor common man has to pay Rs. 50 over the listed government price for a LPG gas cylinder refill? It’s my izzat ka sawaal that these works be done. Do this for my self-respect. The community will benefit.’

  ‘Community, I can understand,’ I said. ‘But does everything have to be channeled through your relatives alone?’ He looked at me in genuine astonishment. ‘Of course! What do you expect? That I should route everything through Mulayam Singh or Kalyan Singh’s relatives?’

  By the time we got back to the Raj Bhawan gates we had already lost our place in the queue. In fact, among those loitering around the stately columns of the residence were, predictably, Pandit Bimari and Thakur Lambemoochwala. ‘I say, Thakur saheb,’ I said, ‘whose side are you on now? Hadn’t you deserted the mother organization and, along with Panditji, joined the Congress Tiwari? What brings you back now?’

  ‘Who said I had ever left the Congress?’ the Thakur said. ‘The problem with you young pups is that you don’t understand politics. That was part of the strategy − that I pretend to leave in disgust, get a foothold in the Opposition camp and leak back information about their moves. Why do you think the Opposition is having such a bad time these days? You think all these things happen automatically?’

  I must have looked skeptical. And the man knew it. While several of the hangers-on nodded sagaciously and praised his political acumen, he jerked his head to the right and gave me an ishara to follow him outside to the parking area. ‘Beta,’ he said, ‘mera raaz mat kholiye. Asli baat ye hai ki hum log laal batti wale hai. Bina laal batti humara neta-giri mushkil se chalta.’

  Rather than disgust, his confession actually touched me. Here was the terror of Tazpur secretly begging me to ensure that his mooch − that splendid handlebar moustache − remained intact. Here was an old man admitting to me that it was his ‘office’ (and with it the red light on his car) that was the real attraction for his voters. After so many years of growing up in his shadow, what could I possibly do?

  Funny things, these laal battis. They make terrors out of tin men. Netas out of nincompoops. Why, for a fleeting moment there, even I stopped to wonder how Chachi would look with a laal batti atop her smooth top. ‘Madath Singh Yadav, MLA’ − that had a nice ring to it. ‘Mantri Madath Singh Yadav’ − that sounded even better.

  But only for a moment.

  Even as I fantasized, a stream of paan juice gushed out from Trivediji’s over active mouth. This time his normally accurate aim was way off. A long ugly streak appeared on Chachi’s left side. Chachi, who had purred on cue when I switched on the ignition, now started automatically braking and backfiring. She was not pleased.

  Amma yaar, I thought, if wishes were horses then beggars would ride. And, in all the years I have been driving this DLY taxi, I’ve certainly never seen a beggar ride!

  35

  ONE LESS GOOD MAN BOUND FOR GLORY!

  WE HAD BARELY RETURNED TO DELHI, TRIVEDIJI SETTLING for just a transfer of his district magistrate, when another telegram arrived from the village. This time even I was harassed. Kya yaar, was I never to be left alone?

  Turns out it was a false alarm. No urgent summons to Etawah. It was my father-in-law asking if Lala Phulepaitwala’s grandson, Mukesh, had been in touch. He had been missing from home for a week and the old man hadn’t been able to concentrate on the tobacco auctions − so upset was he.

  As soon as able I booked a call home. (Though STD has arrived at Etawah, our remote village is yet to be connected.) ‘What is the matter?’ I asked. ‘The young lad got some chhori in trouble?’

  ‘Tauba! Tauba!’ Bablu ki Ma clucked. ‘How can you talk to my father like that? This comes from being so free with your own son. Please be more respectful.’

  Turns out that Lalaji’s grandson had walked out of the house after a battle royal about the boy’s desire to become a doctor. Lalaji wanted Mukesh to take over the family tobacco business, especially since he had been thinking of branching out into trading in alu and amrud. But it seems the grandson had other plans. ‘Mukesh says he’s upset at the unhygienic conditions in our villages,’ Lalaji told the little lady’s father. ‘Knowing how much he admires your son-in-law, the naalayak is bound to get in touch with him. If this happens, tell Madath Singh to explain to Mukesh how stupid he is being. He has some notion that my beedi rolling business is contributing to the high incidence of T.B. and cancer in our area. Now, I ask you, how will quitting the business help in controlling the spread of these diseases?’

  To be on the safe side he called me up as well. ‘Tell him that a better solution would be for the family trust to build a cancer or T. B. hospital. That’s a noble enough gesture. And, if that doesn’t work, tell him that doctry in a village is a useless, penniless profession.’

  Now I like Mukesh. But even I was surprised by this newfound vocation. The last time I met him was during a family wedding in the village. He seemed more concerned with the state of the insides of his double-barreled gun than that of the beedi mazdoors who slogged for his grandfather. Certainly getting neel gai on shikar seemed the most important thing in his life then.

  It was a subdued man who rang our doorbell the next morning. ‘Chachiji, pranam,’ he said, bowing to touch Bablu ki Ma’s feet. She was most impressed. Surely this was not the same lad her niece Indira had complained about as being an eve-teasing loafer? ‘Not possible,’ the lady now said. ‘That Indira is always doing drama.’ Obviously his charm had worked. Not only did she refuse to let me sleep any longer, she also added an extra elaichi in his chai.

  ‘Kya hua beta?’ I asked. ‘Kya irada hai?’ He seemed pretty clear. He wanted to compete in the medical entrance tests for the top five medical colleges in Karnataka − top of the list being the one at Manipal. If his marks didn’t meet the grade he would prevail upon his grandfather (who had been taking care of him since his father died five years ago) to put down the money for the somewhat exorbitant capitation fee.

  ‘That’s a lot of money, beta,’ I said. ‘Would it be worth it? Would it not be better to follow in your frail Dada’s footsteps and hire someone − whose family depends on his job − to treat your T. B. affected workers? If you don’t join the family business then what’s to happen after Lalaji is no more? Who will maintain the family fortunes?’

  ‘That’s only money, Chacha,’ he said. ‘What use was all Dada’s money when Papa contracted cancer six years ago? At best it helped him go painlessly. But go he did. And it was the doctor who eased the pain. The money only paid for the chemotherapy and finally the morphine that made the pain bearable.’

  What could I say before such logic? I was at a loss for words.

  Not so my brother-in-law, Mehnath, who had been hanging around our home since last night, ostensibly to try and con some politician into saving him the premium on a Tata Sumo. Mehnath, whom one can always bank upon to come up with a crooked solution for any problem, said, ‘Arre bhai, what’s all the fuss about? This debate was going on in the village before I left and some of us friends came to the conclusion that doctry is not at all a bad profession for the villages. Who say
s rural people don’t have money to pay for treatment? Do you know the kind of money that is accumulated under all those beds in the Sadhwara and the Bazaar? Lalaji himself has enough money and enough ailments to keep an entire team of doctors afloat. You go ahead, beta. There is more money in medicine than there is in trading alu and amrud.

  ‘As for this poor boy’s eligibility,’ he turned to me, ‘why, having a doctor son-in-law is such a status symbol that Lalaji will not even have to pay the capitation fees. I know of at least ten fathers who will gladly come up with the money the day their daughter’s engagement is announced into Lalaji’s family.’

  Mukesh should have been pleased with how well Jawai Babu’s logic worked in his favour. But he still looked unhappy. ‘Chacha,’ he said, ‘what is this major preoccupation with money? Must even a noble profession like medicine be reduced to a saleable commodity? Is Dada to be persuaded to accept my desire on the grounds that it makes me more eligible in the marriage market?’

  As he spoke, Bablu ki Ma beamed. I, too, became awash with pride. This was the heart of my heritage beating. This was the kind of motivation that Dadu keeps trying to instil in Bablu. This was the kind of spirit with which he, and our galaxy of freedom fighters, secured India’s Independence. Service before self!

  As we spoke the doorbell rang. (It was one of those silly contraptions that sing out for at least half a minute. Bablu won ours at a Diwali mela and so from September itself we have been greeting visitors to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells’!) But, as usual, I digress.

  It didn’t surprise me to see Lala Phulepaitwala and my father-in-law standing there. The third of the party was a new face. But Jawai Babu seemed to know him. In fact, judging by the enthusiastic greeting they gave each other, they appeared to be great friends. Mehnath turned around and introduced the somewhat balding, stomach-bulging-out-of-safari-suit gentleman as the Etawah bureau chief of the Savera Times. Whatever was the man doing with these two oldies? I thought. Surely they were not airing their dirty linen in public?

  ‘You misjudge the media, bhai saheb,’ the man said, obviously reading the transparent distrust on my face. ‘We journalists are like doctors. We diagnose the ills of society and suggest cures. If the illness continues it probably is because society, like your average person, hates to swallow the bitter pill.’

  This man made a lot of sense. Arre bhai, I thought, have I been unnecessarily cynical and uncharitable about UP media wallahs after all? Just as I opened my mouth to say so I caught the end of a wink that Jawai Babu gave the portly pressman. My antennae went up. Mehnath never, but never, winks in vain. Something was not quite right here.

  Was I surprised about what happened next? Obviously not. Instead of raving and ranting, Lalaji hugged his grandson enthusiastically. Bablu’s Nana beamed broadly. And the media man whipped out an ancient Roliflex box camera and insisted that we all pose for a group photograph. One big happy family together again. And, even as we assembled, he started to speak − from the look of it a speech he had already made to the elders. ‘Arre bhai, what’s the fuss about?’ he said. ‘Who says doctry is a bad profession for the villages. Who says rural people don’t have money to pay? We all agree (and they all nodded happily) that you should go ahead. Lalaji has been convinced that there is more money in medicine than in trading alu and amrud.’ He paused for dramatic effect and said, ‘Congratulations, Mukesh. We’ve already found a ladki wallah for whom it will be an honour to pay your capitation fees.’

  Now I understood the significance of the wink. Mehnath had been sent by this man.

  And then came his real purpose. ‘As for the admission: I have located a “contact” that will push through the admission. For a small fee, of course.’ Of course!

  I was completely thrown off gear. And as for the others: Bablu ki Ma looked like she wanted to hit someone with her belan and Bablu muttered, ‘“Service before self ”, my foot!’ As for Mukesh − a familiar look came over his face. It was the same look I saw on my cousin Sumitra’s face when the biradari decided to ‘dispose off’ the man she wanted to marry and instead forcibly tied her to the marriage bed of that rich wastrel, Harpal Singh Yadav. It was the same look that my sister, Jawai Babu’s wife, had on her face each time she informed us about another pregnancy. It was the same look I saw on my nephew Raunaq’s face when we heard his two best friends had died in the train accident at Tundla. The look of helpless resignation.

  He sat there silently, looking more haunted by the minute, while the media man outlined the plans for his, Mukesh’s, future. He sat there silently while a pandit was summoned to match his horoscope with that of the capitation fee-paying father’s daughter. He sat there silently while dates were announced and tilaks were applied and mithai was exchanged.

  I, too, sat there silently. One more adventurer bites the UP dust, I thought − the flower of his chivalry crushed in the inexorable machine of fate. A machine long since rusted − no longer churning out stories of victory and valour.

  One less good man bound for glory!

  36

  WHOSE LIFE IS IT, ANYWAY?

  UNFORTUNATELY THE PAL OF GLOOM THAT MUKESH’S MISERY had initiated just seemed to continue during the day. Jawai Babu Mehnath and I went out to the local booze shop to get our evening tipple and tried to cheer each other up but even the Bison Brand couldn’t do the trick. To make matters worse it was tearful Bablu ki Ma who opened the door.

  ‘Kya hua?’ I asked. ‘Has our badmash son been giving you trouble?’ She didn’t say a word. She just bowed her head and went into the rasoi to make tea. This really bothered me. Was it something I had done? Had I forgotten her birthday? Our wedding anniversary? A doctor’s appointment? Some special tamasha? The chai came and was drunk. Her cup remained untouched. My own appetite went out of the window.

  I sat there in my old rocking chair (salvaged out of a distress sale at Kali Mem’s Mission Compound house) and tried to gather my wits together. This was an intolerable situation. But even as I ground my teeth, through the corner of my eye I saw the little lady chupke chupke pull out a piece of paper from the cleft in her blouse and push it under the cushion of her favourite sofa.

  That night, when she finally came to bed − all red-eyed − I pretended to be in deep slumber. Shortly after, when she herself was softly snoring, I tiptoed out of the room.

  I must say I felt bad. So often I have yelled at Bablu for going through my mail. So often I have given him a lecture on good manners. And here was I going to do the same. But the temptation was too much. And my curiosity had already killed off a dozen billies.

  It was difficult to read between the blurred lines of the inland letter. Some of the little lady’s tears had found their waterloo here. It was from my cousin Sanyuktha, Tau Nakli Singh’s second daughter. (She ranks second on Bablu ki Ma’s most favourite list, the first being my sister Pushpa.) Sanyuktha got particularly close to us that day, ten years ago, when we both protested against Tau’s plan to marry her off to the mentally unstable son of the richest man in our biradari. Ultimately it was Dadu’s personal intervention that persuaded the rich father that we meant no insult and the girl was too young to marry at the time. A year later we hurriedly got a young, healthy fellow who had a good job in Shervani saheb’s sugar mill in Etah and sent her out of the district.

  Her letters used to be so ecstatic − the young man had obviously put his B. A. from Kanpur University to some decent use. Even when the first and second born were girls the chaps smiled and went out each time and bought a ring for the mother. What rated him high in Bablu ki Ma’s book was that he took no nonsense from his mother about the birth of two girls in succession. And, though he may have felt otherwise, he made it clear that if the third attempt were another girl there would be no more tries for a son. Of course since Ranvir Singh Yadav, ‘Ladla’, was born four years ago, Sanyuktha’s stock in her in-laws home had gone up several notches. So, in this idyllic situation, I couldn’t imagine what was wrong. But as I read through the tear-smudged
letter, however, it became abundantly clear. Ladla, the apple of Sanyuktha’s father-in-law’s eye, had just been diagnosed as having rheumatic heart disease.

  Arre bhai, I thought, how can a little boy get anything ‘rheumatic’? Surely ‘rheumatism’ is only associated with old age? I’m sure these ignorant fellows in the village have got it all wrong. I’m sure the doctor Sanyuktha consulted is one of those quacks who give pani ka injections and prescribe drugs long since on the World Health Organization’s banned list. But, to be on the safe side, I looked it up in this fancy Concise Encyclopedia that Bablu won the other day at a speech competition. (You should hear the fancy words he uses! Even Dadu is impressed!) The book said that the initial germ of the disease is a bacterium called ‘Streptococcus Beta Hemoliticus’ − a germ that, like the common flu, flourishes in the air and spreads mainly through physical contact. If untreated, the end result may be a ‘weakening’ or ‘constriction’ of the heart valves − leading to malfunction of the heart and sometimes adverse affect on the brain as well.

  Arre bhai, I told myself, ye to khatarnak cheez hai! And the first instinctive thought that crossed my mind was: Poor Sanyuktha. How will she fend off the barbed attacks of her mother-in-law? First two girls and now a cripple!

  The next morning at the taxi stand I asked around if anyone knew any good heart doctors. (You’ll be surprised what fancy savaris we get since we do out-of-town trips.) Gurcharan Singh said he knew this doctor who was the director of the G. B. Pant Hospital, and who used to help out with many cases of people who didn’t have the money to pay for emergency treatment. When Gurcharan’s mother suffered a sudden heart attack he had rushed her to Pant Hospital and, though she was just the mother of a taxi driver, Dr. M. Khalilullah had given her special treatment.