Battle for Bittora

by Anuja Chauhan

  Well, the scion of bloody Bittora could just go cuddle his string of trophy girlfriends. I swivelled my thumb to click the Ignore option. And stopped.

  I had to be cunning.

  Because if my life really had turned into a bad Madhur Bhandarkar film (called Politics, you know, like Corporate and Fashion and Jail), I had to play this smartly. If Zain could play Frenemy-Frenemy, then I could play Frenemy-Frenemy too.

  The train tracks clicked don't do it - don't do it - don't do it, the 'To Stop Train Pull Chain' sign swayed before my eyes. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and clicked Confirm.

  You are now friends with Zain Altaf Khan, the screen informed me smoothly. Click here to view his profile and see pictures like this. And all these tiny tantalizing images popped up. So, of course (just to check that there were no pics of last night's Dark Doings uploaded there), I clicked.

  Images of Zain filled the screen. Grinning through mussed-up, sweaty dark curls, standing with a cricket group in the mustard fields of Bittoragarh. Leaning against an ivy-covered wall at Winchester, arms crossed, wearing a grey sweater. Sittting behind the wheel of an open, mud-spattered four-wheel drive, looking exhausted but happy. In a white kurta and cap, pulling hideous faces at the backs of some laughing girls in salwar kameezes.

  Next to his profile picture was his latest status update (Nine hours ago). Zain is thinking that old friends are the best friends one can have after all...

  There were already seven comments in response to his status.

  Hey! Who are you calling old? This from a hulking, grinning creature called Bunty Sisodia. Ugh, I remembered him vaguely from the old days in Bittora. He was always after Zain to open a Sholay-themed pub in London called The Thakur's Arms. He thought that was the height of wit.

  So true... So true... from some random-looking gora who had a toddler sitting on his shoulders.

  And five responses from various simpering bimbos saying cheesy things like Time is relative and Bonds can be made in one eternal moment and It matters not how far you go back but how deep you go within, which was frankly obscene if you ask me.

  I took a long, long look at his home page, snorted and snapped my laptop shut.

  (His relationship status said Single, by the way, not that I was looking or anything.)

  ***

  4

  Bittoragarh swung into view at seven in the morning, looking dewy fresh and deceptively quiet. I sat on the steps at the door of the bogie, sipping tea, the wind ruffling my hair, watching the sun rise - a shiny, translucent, well-sucked disc of orange candy in a sky as purple as jacarandas. I saw parties of birds swirl and dip and chase each other above the green fields, smelled the pungent odour of buffalo dung and counted thirteen dusty red bogies as the train curved round a bend and became briefly visible. Finally, I spotted, shimmering in the morning mist, the ancient, moss-covered bridge guarded by three rampant stone lions, hanging across the sluggishly flowing Bitwa river.

  I felt a silly surge of happiness when I saw that bridge. When I was a child, sighting the bridge used to mean the end of square roots and logarithms and the beginning of good times for two whole months. I leaned out impulsively, hoping to see monkeys sitting on the low railings on either side. If I see a monkey here, I will have a blast this year... and then Amma was behind me, brandishing toothbrush, mug and towel in my face, insisting I do kulla, take snaan and make mosun immediately.

  God, she is so irritating. She knows I hate 'making mosun' on the train - when I was a child I was convinced I would fall through The Hole in the pot and be crushed to death on the tracks. Amma always told me crossly that it was far more likely that I'd fall off the steps and die, but I ignored her - I loved sitting on the steps too much. You can hear the wheels sing, and smell the smoke, and fill the wind in your hair. Zain used to tell me that Bunty Sisodia and he always sat on the steps on their way to Bittoragarh, and when they spotted people squatting in the fields doing their morning job, plastic bottles of water beside them for washing up afterwards, they'd shoot stones from their catapults to upset the bottles and leave the squatters all high and dry.

  But I mustn't think of Zain.

  I got up and made my way to the rattling first AC loo, and when I came lurching back into the compartment twenty minutes later, adjusting the pallu of my simple pink and red cotton sari and finger-combing my wet hair, Amma was all dressed. She was tweezing little-little hairs out of her nose, peering short-sightedly into the mirror of a powder compact which Gudia aunty was holding up for her. They both turned to look at me when I entered. I realized with a slight start that Gudia aunty was wearing my watch. For safekeeping probably, I told myself. No need to panic.

  'Jinni, you look lovely!' gushed Gudia aunty. 'Hain na, madam?'

  But Amma shook her head.

  'Kuch missing hai,' she grunted.

  I could've told her kya missing hai. My high heels missing hain. Basically, I'd been reduced to my natural height of five feet two inches because Amma insisted I wear a pair of stupid Champapuli chappals for the campaigning. They're the main produce of the assembly segment of Champapul, and famous across India. I've always hated them. People from Champapul have been gifting them to Amma, Ma and me ever since I can remember. I have one in every size. They look like they're made out of buffalo scrotum and give me instant blisters.

  'See is looking too plain,' grumbled Amma.

  'Yes yes,' Gudia aunty agreed at once, eyeing me critically. 'I was also thinking that only. Perhaps... a little gold, madam?'

  Amma brightened up immediately, rummaged through the oregano, saunf and chilli flakes sachets in her handbag and, much to my horror, produced a little red velvet box and flipped it open. Nestled inside were a pair of highly uncool, large gold 'tops' with thick grooved stems. I groaned.

  'Perfect!' breathed Gudia aunty with evangelical zeal.

  'No!' I said desperately. 'Amma, those stems are too thick, they'll never go through. I don't want to wear them, I won't--'

  But it was of no use. At a signal from Amma, Gudia aunty jumped me. She held me down with a grip of steel, smiling apologetically, while Amma, after slathering dollops of ShaSmooth lotion onto the monstrous stems, thrust them through my ears and screwed them in nice and tight.

  'These things are way too thick for my ears,' I wailed, my eyes watering.

  Amma flashed her gap-toothed grin, panting slightly as she screwed. 'Well, what to do?' she said. 'You are very young, and so maybe at first,' her grin got all meaningful, 'the stick seems too big for the hole. But don't worry,' she cackled, 'if the stick is well lubricated it won't hurt, and in time the hole will expand and you will get ujed to it.'

  I couldn't believe she just said that! No wonder she got along so well with that prince of perverts, Gaiman Tagore Rumi!

  'That,' I said with dignity, massaging my throbbing ears, 'is a low-down cheap crack that does absolutely no credit to your grey hair and long years in parliament.'

  She chuckled. 'Arrey, relax Sarojini,' she said, slapping my butt lightly. 'Sometimes you talk just like an old woman.'

  Muttering abuses, I retreated to a corner of the compartment and watched, revolted, as she serenely unpacked a huge box of mithai, part of her Holi loot, and proceeded to eat an extremely ugly pink and green khoya barfi shaped like a three-tiered birthday cake. I didn't bother to protest. Life is sort, Sarojini, is all I would've got for my pains. I looked out gloomily at the scenery instead, the lobes of my ears aching fit to burst. About ten minutes later, the Pavit Kranti Express pulled into Bittora Junction and screeched to a slow, majestic halt. Amma came up from behind me, hissing, 'Get up and wave! Remember, nod, smile, point with the finger!'

  I nodded, my heart slamming a military beat against my ribs, and stood up as the train's engines hissed and grunted, and a sea of white khadi and orange, white and green flags engulfed the platform to our left.

  Gudia aunty peered out the windows, shuddered theatrically and declared in thrilled horror, 'Madam! It's like a s
wayamwar outside, madam!'

  Sure enough, a battalion of grinning, kurta-and-jacket clad men, some tall and brawny, some short and scrawny, were lined up on the platform, armed with garlands as thick as pythons, encrusted with rose, chrysanthemum and silver tinsel. Behind them milled a large white kurta-pyjama-clad horde.

  Amma gave a satisfied grunt, popped two silver-coated pods of elaichi into her mouth to ensure that her breath was daisy fresh, pushed past me, and stepped onto the platform, beaming. She was immediately swallowed up by the crowd and by the garlands which, piled one on top of the other, obscured first her neck, then her entire head. Immediately, Gudia aunty, swelling with self-importance, clutching the Milton hotcase containing forty L and fifty T in her hands, swept past me and surged to the side of the Amazing Headless Lady, her accented Hindi sounding slightly surreal as she scolded the crowd: 'Back jaaeeye, back jaaeeye! Crush mat kariye!'

  Cries of

  Aaee aaee Pushpa Pande!

  Phootey brashtachar ke bhaande!

  rent the air. Suddenly, a sturdy figure began to push the crowd back roughly, abusing them roundly. It was Munni. The rest of the crack team followed her lead. As they parted the crowds, Gudia aunty peeled the garlands off Amma one at a time, staggering under their cumulative weight, and gradually Amma's head emerged, dishevelled but smiling graciously. She raised one frail hand delicately for silence.

  The crowd gave it to her, instantly.

  'Arrey bhai, we have retired,' she said.

  They protested loudly.

  She shook her head. 'Nahin-nahin-nahin, we have retired!'

  The protests got louder.

  She shook her head again, smiling an enigmatic half-smile, and beckoned to me to come forward. Feeling like I was about to throw up, I came forward, tripping a little on my sari pleats. 'Ab hum chahten hain ki you all bless this child, and give her the same love that you have always given us.'

  Deafening applause. Cries of Pushpaji ki jai. And as the Pragati Party's pulsating Jai Ho anthem kicked in, we were borne towards a convoy of hectically stickered white Tata Sumos and bundled into a particularly spiffy one, with a massive pointing finger on its bum.

  Amma promptly clambered up and stuck her head through the strangely proportioned, custom-made sky roof, which pretty much put paid to any attempt at air-conditioning. I hung on grimly to her sandalled feet, perspiring, worried she might do herself an injury, the driver was going so fast.

  'Why is this taking so long?' I yelled up at Amma after about twenty minutes of sweaty, deafening driving. 'It's just a five-minute drive to Begumbagh!'

  'We need to let people know we are HERE!' she yelled back, waving her arms wildly at the crowd. 'That we are filing aawar NOMINASUN! Why sould we take the sort way?'

  And so we drove manically round and round the town, our speakers blaring. Jai Ho, we hailed the pink-palmed, blue-skinned Krishna, playing his flute atop the stone gateway of the Bittora temple. Jai Ho, we boomed at the statue of old Begum Raiza Ali Khan, standing in the midst of a circular fountain, a hawk on her wrist. Jai Ho, Kings Bakery, makers of the yummiest nankhatai and pineapple pastries in Pavit Pradesh. Jai Ho, laughing school girls with neatly oiled, red-ribboned hair and bright blue pinafores, sailing to school in gaily painted cycle-rickshaws. Jai Ho, pyramids of pale muskmelons and emerald green watermelons! Jai Ho, mangy street dogs! Jai Ho, plump street pigs!

  Finally, Amma sank down beside me, her face glowing. I handed her a chilled bottle of water from the tiny icebox, she glugged it down and declared, shouting above the music, her hair wild: 'Pragati ki hawa hai. We are sure of it!'

  I nodded, smiling. Her excitement was infectious.

  'Get up there and wave!' she yelled.

  'Oh, no.' I shook my head at once. 'I couldn't!'

  Amma narrowed her eyes. 'Sarojini, get up,' she urged.

  No way, I thought chaotically, I can't. I'm just a weedy kitaanu animator from Mumbai.

  Amma leaned in and thrust her face right into mine. 'Get up now,' she hissed.

  Okay, okay, no need to push.

  I clambered to my feet and then, with the 'Jai Ho' music pulsating madly in my ears, surrendered to the call of the sky roof and stuck my head out. It was searingly hot. And the dust made my eyes tear up instantly. But the childhood scent of diesel and roses was electrifying. I filled my lungs and threw back my head.

  'Jai Ho, Bittoragarh!' I yelled, raising both arms in a namaste over my head which would've left me dead if the Sumo braked too suddenly. The wind whipped my hair about and great canopies of brassy red and gold gulmohar whizzed past my head. 'Jai Ho!!!'

  ***

  As we looped the main Begumbagh street for what seemed like the fourth time, I realized there was a plain black Maruti Gypsy trailing our cavalcade. It wasn't a press vehicle, but it bore some kind of sticker. I frowned, squinting, trying to read. 'On Election Duty', the sticker said, just like ours did, but it carried no party insignia.

  I slid into my seat and asked Amma who they were.

  She just sniffed disdainfully but Gudia aunty supplied the information. 'Election commission fellows,' she said, with a roll of her ping-pong-ball eyes. 'Get used to them, Jinni. They will trail you everywhere you go, like beggars, and record everything you say and do. See their cameras?'

  Peering out the window now, I realized that the grey safari-suited dude in the black Maruti Gypsy did indeed have a small black camcorder held up to the right side of his face.

  'They have a permit to stop you anywhere and search your vehicles anytime,' she told me. 'They record all the speeches you make, too.'

  'What would they be searching my vehicle for?' I asked in confusion.

  She goggled a little at this very stupid question, but answered it patiently enough.

  'Oxygen,' she said. 'Obviously! The candidate's car is never supposed to have more than a lakh and fifty thousand rupees in it, you know. They seize it otherwise.'

  'But what can you buy with one lakh fifty in this day and age?' I protested jokingly.

  Gudia aunty and Amma nodded vehemently in agreement. 'Exactly,' they said. 'Nothing.'

  'We need to carry money for diesel for all the vehicles in the convoy,' Amma explained. 'For food. For alcohol. Arrey, there could be a temple or a mosque on the way, we may need to make a donation. There could be anything! How will one lakh fifty cover it?'

  'And if you're caught with more than twenty-five lakhs in your car, they can actually disqualify you!' Gudia aunty continued. 'Also, they send all your speech recordings back to the election commissioner's office. To be checked for objectionable statements - bigotry, hate, inciting violence and slander of opposing candidates. Or pressure tactics or attempts to bribe the voters.'

  'So there are seventeen teams trailing all seventeen Bittora candidates?' I asked in disbelief. 'And hang on, in all 546 constituencies across India? In some constituencies there are like thirty candidates! Wow, no wonder our elections cost a bomb!'

  Amma looked at me irritatedly. 'That is completely besides the point, Sarojini,' she said. 'The point ij, be careful.'

  When we finally got to the office, about an hour later, the returning officer sucked up to Amma shamelessly, but very subtly. It's a highly specialized art, sucking up subtly, and he had just the right touch. Then he led us to his office to file the nomination papers. I sat down nervously, fighting the urge to giggle.

  'Age?' he inquired.

  I opened my mouth to answer, but Our Pappu was in before me. 'Twenty-five years! Birthday seventh September.' He looked around triumphantly at the rest of the crack team, like he'd scored a huge point over them. He then proceeded, much to my humiliation, to tell the officer what my salary was, to the exact paisa. He rattled off my address in Mumbai like it was his own, listed my immovable and moveable assets, and the 73.2 per cent with which I'd cleared my class twelve and the grade I'd got at Tuck University. He added that it was ik-weee-wah-lunt to an MA here in India. He concluded by announcing that I had no criminal record o
r cases pending against me whatsoever.

  I smiled weakly. My ears throbbed.

  'What he said,' I told him.

  We handed over our ten thousand bucks, signed an oath swearing to fight clean and fair and to abide by the Constitution of India, got it stamped and emerged from the office into the sunshine. Tons of local newspaper people were lurking outside. They clicked pics of Amma and me showing The Finger, our mustachioed kurta-pyjama-clad cheerleaders chanted a few slogans, and then we loaded ourselves into the white Sumos and drove home to Bauji's house.

  ***

  Looking out the window, more relaxed now, I realized that Bittora had changed after all. There were fewer trees, and much more traffic. The stray cows looked thinner. Internet cafes had sprung up all along the old clock-tower area. More hoardings - for jewellery stores, pressure-cookers and insurance policies - crowded the roads. Piles of garbage dotted the streets. A lot of old houses had been displaced by multi-storied buildings with too much fussy, plaster-of-Paris work. But it was still, unmistakably, the Bittora of my childhood.

  And the house itself hadn't changed a bit. It stood behind the low spear-tipped, bottle-green iron gate at the end of Pandit MM Pande Road, its weathered cream walls set off by glowing, deep red bougainvillea. The yellowing marble nameplate, a little more cracked and gunky than before, still proclaimed Saket Bhavan - the Abode of Peace, in ornate devnagari script. The drive was lined with dancing black-eyed sunflowers and trees full of riotous clusters of mango blossoms. The white pillared verandah was dotted with comfy looking moodha chairs. Creamy white champa flowers with butter-yellow hearts lay scattered in the deep green grass and the humming of bees filled the air.

  Tears sprang to my eyes as I jumped out of the Sumo.

  And then two heavy, hairy paws locked themselves around my neck. Horrible, grunting, panting noises assaulted my ears as I looked, petrified, into a pair of maniacal, liquid chocolate eyes, inches away from my nose. They seemed to be glazing over with pleasure as a huge golden body pumped away at me frantically. A drooling mouth, with teeth as large as fat pods of garlic and a lolling pink tongue, grinned at me in a friendly nothing-personal sort of way.