The name sounded familiar. Where had I heard it before? And then it clicked. But wasn’t that the man who ran foul of our Delhi government wallahs? Wasn’t our health minister after his blood? Gurcharan said, ‘Kamaal hai, yaar. Now that you remind me, he did give the doctor a rough time. But that makes no sense. I remember clearly that when Mataji was in hospital the mother of this self same minister used to come regularly to Dr. Khalilullah for treatment. Surely the minister cannot be such a namak haram?’
‘Bhai saheb,’ I said, ‘Don’t judge these politicians by your own standards. They live by some other code.’
I took Gurcharan’s advice and drove up to G. B. Pant Hospital, on the fringes of the Old City. I thought: let’s get some authentic information before the dais in the village start giving their own dubious ‘expert’ advice. When I got to the hospital the security guard told me that the doctor had since retired and had set up his own clinic not too far away. I turned Chachi’s nose towards Daryaganj, past countless legal offices, printing presses and doctor’s clinics, till I got to Dr. K.’s establishment. He greeted me with enthusiasm − though I’m sure he had not the foggiest idea who I was. Over a cup of chai I willed him to tell me that what Sanyuktha had written was not true. The good doctor turned serious. My heart skipped a beat. He cleared his throat. I couldn’t drink another sip.
How fragile is this thing called ‘life’. And how precious this gift called ‘health’. A child is born. The doctor − or dai, as the case may be − picks him up by his feet, turns him upside down and whacks his bottom. He opens his little mouth and takes a deep breath and − whoosh − from the depths of his lungs bursts forth his first cry. And people rejoice. For unto them a child is born. His mother takes him to the local clinic. And the doctor − or social worker, as the case may be − gives him a little injection to protect against the deadly childhood diseases of Diphtheri, Pertusis (what we know as ‘whooping cough’ or ‘kali khansi’) and tetanus. And as he gets his first polio drops he puckers his lips at the bitterness and opens his little mouth and cries out. And people rejoice. For now the child is immunized and can be declared ‘healthy’.
And, as the seasons turn, his lungs get stronger. And he says his first word. And his little feet touch the ground. And he takes his first step. And the biradari prepares for his ‘bismillah’ or ‘thread ceremony’ or ‘first communion’ or ‘navjot’, as the case may be. And the child now becomes a youth. And he’s ready for school and college and the challenges of the big wide world. And people rejoice. For now the child is ‘literate’.
But what happens when someone − or something − suddenly turns off the switch mid-way? Think of what happens when the child is born − but does not cry. He cries − but does not see. He lives − but does not walk.
He put it as gently as a doctor could. But, the bald truth was that little Ladla Yadav was now living with a time bomb in his chest. Yes, there were operations to correct the anomaly but they were expensive. I said, ‘What a pity. I suppose his kismet was bad.’ But I was to be allowed no consolation. The good doctor shook his head from side to side in denial. It seems rheumatic heart disease is preventable, if recognized and treated in time. And what would it have taken? The first sign of the onset of ‘streph throat’ is fever and a bad throat, accompanied by joint pains. If, at this time, a throat swab is taken and the bacteria are identified, a simple course of Penicillin injections − at intervals of one each month for a specified period − could prevent the infection from affecting the heart valves.
One test is all it takes. And one little Penicillin injection at the right time. One little prick of a needle that little Ladla Yadav did not get.
‘Do you know why I feel so bad?’ Bablu ki Ma said when I broke the news of my ‘investigations’ to her. It seems she had accompanied some of her Saheli friends to a Rotary Club camp on childhood diseases and rheumatic heart disease had been top on the list − next only to polio. When Sanyuktha’s child first got the fever and sore throat the little lady had been in the village. And she had wanted to suggest that a check be done for ‘streph throat’. But already the other women had singled her out for criticism. She was ‘too forward’ because she refused to wear a ghunghat any more. And when Bablu’s big words started making even the men feel awkward the blame was put on her more than on me.
‘I should have insisted,’ she kept repeating. ‘I should have insisted. One little injection. One little injection costing less than six rupees. That’s all it would have taken to draw the line between happiness and grief.’
How fragile is this thing called ‘life’. How precious this gift called ‘health’. I felt like shouting from the rooftops: ‘All you mothers and grandmothers and well meaning chachis − the next time an infant reaches out in distress please, please think not of your own egos but of the frail life on whose destiny you pass judgment. Please, just think of whose life is it any way .…’
37
IN THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS
THE END OF EACH SCHOOL DAY SEES A MAJOR TUG-OF-WAR between mother and son. The little lady is not bothered by his messiness − the fact that he starts to undress even before he comes through the door or that he talks with his mouth full. Her real compliant, like a typical mother, is that Bablu doesn’t eat enough.
So when I returned home early in response to a frantic message from Bablu I was more than half expecting to walk into a minor battle of Panipat. On the contrary, he was beaming from ear to ear. And his mother was even more animated. ‘Kya hua?’ I asked. ‘You finally passed a math exam?’
His mother was indignant. ‘What business have you to talk?’ she said. ‘To begin with, you spend so little time with him. And who are you to lecture him on math? Since when have you ever been able to balance your bank book?’
Turns out Bablu’s excitement bubbled out of this party that his class at school was organizing to celebrate the coming event of Christmas − the day when our Christian brothers and sisters rejoice at the birth of their Isa Masih. ‘Christmas is the season for giving,’ Bablu said. And so all his classmates had agreed to bring in some decorations for the Christmas tree, under which each would place a token present. ‘What is this nonsense about giving presents and celebrating Christmas?’ Jawai Babu demanded to know. ‘Better watch out for these Christian fellows. First they con you into singing “Jingle Bells” and, before you know it, they will try to convert you. Then they will demand reservations from you. And when you refuse to comply, they will create a riot situation.
Trust the lazy good-for-nothing to both butt in at the wrong time and then to get things wrong. Bablu ki Ma, who at the best of times dislikes the man enormously, reacted violently. ‘What’s a simple Christmas party got to do with conversions and reservations and riot situations?’ she demanded to know. There was another reason for her anger − an acute sense of embarrassment. For, in the next room but within hearing distance, sat my taxi stand colleague, Joseph Pinto’s wife, Mary − the plum cake specially baked for the occasion still warm from the oven. Mary and Bablu ki Ma can barely communicate with each other. They speak different languages, in accents so different. They come from backgrounds so different, with religious preferences even more so. But their sons are the same age, go to the same school, wear the same uniforms, and both − one Christian, one Hindu − celebrate every festival, Diwali, Id, Christmas et al, with such gusto that comments such as the one made by Jawai Babu grate sharply on the nerves.
As I watched the little lady ruffle her feathers I said to myself: ‘You’ve come a long way, lady!’ I couldn’t help remembering the time, not too many years ago, when the two of us had similar arguments. My own background − with my formative years under the guidance of Father Ignatius from Mission School, Etawah − was relatively more open. As I’ve mentioned before, my best friend since junior school was Robert Atmaram, nephew of Kali Mem, whose husband retired as station master in the neighbouring district of Farrukhabad. When I joined Mission College, Robert’s sister, Gladys, was t
he object of everyone’s whistles. And many were the time when I had to restrain the hot-blooded young fellow from putting up his fists because the Thakur boys from across the village had made an improper suggestion.
Bablu ki Ma, on the other hand, had only heard of Christians in the usual roundabout way − thanks to the exaggerated versions projected by Messrs. Raj Kapoor and Manmohan Desai over there in Bombay. For her the choice was either villain Ajit’s side kick saying ‘Yes Baas!’ or ‘Mona Darling’ in her short frock and plunging neckline or overweight ‘Aunty Ruby’ with fish frying in her kitchen or ‘Uncle D’Souza’ with illicit toddy or arrack flowing out of his veins. It took our blossoming relationship with Joseph and Mary and their young children, Deepak and Shanti, to realize how wrong one’s preconceptions were. It also took many an argument to convince the little lady that those khaki shorts types were much more dangerous in the conversions department than poor Mary and Joseph would ever be. Certainly, after their disgraceful ‘performance’ on 6 December at Ayodhya, these saffron fellows had no business to pass judgment.
Just as the atmosphere was warming up, the doorbell rang. ‘Saved by the bell,’ Bablu muttered under his breath. It was Gurcharan Singh and his wife Paramjeet Kaur. In his hand Gurcharan held the latest copy of a prominent weekly magazine on whose cover an old kindly looking lady was prominently displayed. ‘Madath bhai,’ he said, ‘doesn’t this face look familiar. Haven’t we ferried her around before?’ Yes, the face did look familiar. I had seen it among school children. And in leper colonies. Cuddling disabled infants. And cleaning the filth off the drunks and destitute. Comforting the homeless. And rescuing abandoned newborn infants from garbage bins. Yes, I had seen the face on other magazine covers before. Magazines and newspapers and posters and pamphlets.
I flipped through the cover article to see what the story was all about. The headlines had always been complimentary before. What had the frail lady done to incur such wrath from the media? And, as I turned the pages, I couldn’t help noticing Mary cross herself and murmur a little prayer.
Surprisingly, it was Gurcharan, and not Mary or Joseph, who came to the rescue of the frail old Mother Teresa’s reputation. ‘Damn these press wallahs,’ he said. ‘What business do they have to pass judgment? For Mother an abandoned baby is a gift from God − to be picked up and nurtured into a bright future. For the media the baby is “somebody’s illegitimate caste off ” − to be photographed and filed away for future reference. For the Mother floods and famine and pestilence are bad news but ideal ways of testing man’s humanity. For the media, looking for illusive headlines, what you and I and Mother would consider an “unfortunate” event is actually “good news” because it gives them a banner headline. Is it fair?’ Gurcharan asked. ‘Is it fair that the work of a lifetime is being wiped out completely because of one stray remark – a remark which may even have been wrongly ascribed? I ask you, is it fair that our ministers demand reservations for Dalit Christians and become media heroes and one frail missionary obliquely supports this cause and becomes the big bad wolf? Is it fair?’
Gurcharan’s spontaneous outburst seemed to have boosted Mary’s morale no end. ‘Isn’t it even more ironic that while this controversy kicks mud in Mother Teresa’s face the entire country is putting down the red carpet treatment for Archbishop Desmond Tutu of South Africa? Isn’t it ironic that when Mother Teresa speaks of peoples’ rights she is labeled “fundamentalist” and “chauvinistic” and when Archbishop Tutu speaks of peoples’ rights he is given a Nobel Prize and now sits on a panel that will award the Gandhi Peace Prize?’
‘What are you whining about?’ Jawai Babu interrupted again. All this time he had been sitting on his hands, but getting more impatient by the minute. ‘Just think about it. Why would Albanian-born nun spend all her time trying to clean up the scum in India? Why would she and her Sisters of Charity risk their health in living with lepers? Why should they pick up babies who obviously have no place in society? I tell you this is not natural. This is a plot of the Western nations. The Foreign Hand. Take our babies away and convert them to Christianity. Do you know what the papers say? They say that these Christian missionaries smuggle out little babies under the guise of adoptions and these children are subsequently used as cheap child labour abroad. I’m telling you this is a racket. Like those Muslim fellows who smuggle out their young boys for camel racing in the Middle East or sell off their young girls as child brides for debauched Arabs.’
‘Enough, enough,’ Bablu ki Ma shouted. ‘Tauba, tauba, what absolute rubbish. Jawai Babu, you should be ashamed of yourself.’ While the lady spoke her hands shook and her verging-on-double chin wobbled. ‘Make up your mind,’ she said. ‘You say these abandoned babies have “no place in society”. Then why should you object if they are finding good homes elsewhere in the world?’
Jawai Babu tried to interrupt with, ‘But the newspapers say there is some hera pheri.’ But she had the belan swinging. ‘These papers also tell you stories of how many physically and mentally handicapped orphaned children have found homes with families abroad. Do you bother to read those or did that BJP-minded patrakar back in the village, who feeds you all your information, forget to inform you about this? Have you never heard of child labour in the carpet factories of Mirzapur and the fireworks factories of Sivakasi in this great land of ours?
‘As for Mother Teresa coming to do social service in India, now you’ll tell us she had a premonition about the conflict in Croatia and hence ran away. Or worse still, would you like to spread the rumour that she herself caused it …?’
Jawai Babu didn’t get beyond the word. ‘Well…’ Six pairs of hostile eyes glared down at him. He retreated into the back room to read his latest copy of The Organiser and lick his wounds in private. There were no takers for his saffron brand of argument today.
Bablu, who had been watching Jawai Babu’s incredible display of bad taste with open mouth, raised his hand and asked to speak. ‘All I said was that we friends were going to exchange gifts. That, like Id or Diwali or Easter or Dussehra, the festival of Christmas was just another excuse for a party. Delhi Public School is not a missionary school. There are no nuns and priests running around trying to convert us. None of us really believes that Rudolph is a reindeer with a red nose or that there is such a person as Santa Claus. But one of our teachers − a Hindu teacher, as a matter of fact − is willing to keep up the fiction for the littler kids of Nursery and Prep. It’s not appropriate in Delhi but we are willing to sing “Silent Night, Holy Night” and “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas”.’
‘What is it with you grown ups?’ he continued. ‘Is this what we have to look forward to when we grow up: cynicism and prejudice, sarcasm and worse? Give me Santa Claus and his world of fairy tale make belief any day. At least he talks about giving, not taking. For that matter, give me Mother Teresa any day. At least she doesn’t ask your religion when she reaches out her hand.’
38
GOAN MISADVENTURE
A BEAMING JOSEPH PINTO BURST INTO THE OFFICE AT THE taxi stand, wearing a brightly patterned short sleeved shirt and longish half pants − the things Bablu calls ‘Bermuda shorts’.
‘Arre bhai,’ I exclaimed, ‘this is the height of Delhi winter. Have you gone pagal, completely mad?’ Gurcharan’s nephew, Tiplu, who was earning some holiday money by washing down our taxis, was sent out with a thermos to get some kadak chai. Akbar Pasha took off his thick woollen muffler and Bablu ki Ma, who was just visiting, flapped around muttering something about ‘these crazy South Indians .…’
Turns out Pinto was damn excited because he had just received news that his niece, Mariam, (about whose marriage prospects, you’ll remember, he and wife Mary had been worried sick) was soon to tie the wedding knot. The formal engagement was to be in Goa at the end of January. And we were all invited to attend.
‘But, bhai saheb,’ said Bablu ki Ma, ‘I thought you said you were a Mangalorean. How come an engagement in Goa? Aren’t you people partic
ular about this sort of thing?’ I regretted the words as they spilled out. Pinto’s smile dimmed a little. But then he beamed again and grabbed me in a bear hug. ‘Zamana badal gaya,’ he said. ‘Times have changed. What does it matter where the boy is from? All we care about is that he is also Catholic. And he certainly is Catholic! Why, it seems he actually goes for daily mass. Which is more than I can say for our Mariam!’
Imagine my surprise then when, the very next day, Joseph came in wearing black, with his face as long as a foot. The man who beamed yesterday looked like he was crying inside. Totally defeated.
‘Arre bhai, kya hua?’ I asked. ‘Ladka badmash nikla?’ He flinched visibly. Obviously I had touched a raw nerve. Turns out a second letter had arrived with a photograph of the prospective bridegroom. What a fright! Some hippie type loafer with drug-glazed blue eyes and over long blonde hair, with no roof over his head and a rucksack on his back!
I was shocked. But what about the church attendance every morning? Surely Pinto wasn’t mistaken about that? ‘My brother,’ Joseph said, ‘people say about Goa: “If you throw a stone it will land either on a pig or a cross.” That around every corner there is either a bar or a church. The no-good fellow didn’t need to actually go to church every morning. When they rolled him out of the bar at night that’s where he usually landed. And stayed drunk till the sun came up…’
My heart went out to him. And so, in a fit of impulse, I said, ‘Let’s you and I drive down to Goa in Chachi and put some sense into that niece of yours. She is like my niece too. We can’t let her do the wrong thing.’
Normally Chachi protests about emergency duty. I have to break it to her gently − check out her spark plugs, clean out her filters, tank up her gas supply. But this time, when we set out two days later, she didn’t miss a beat. She just purred liked a satisfied tabby. And only occasionally burped.
Travails with Chachi Page 19
