by Akhilesh
Chacha and Suryakant began to work in earnest. Chacha took photographs and Suryakant operated the video camera. Every member of the family was captured on camera and their voices recorded. Then, they expressed their desire to enter their house. Jagdamba beckoned them to him. When they approached him, he asked two questions. The first was whether they were taking photographs of the family in regard to a police case. Chacha tried to laugh the question off, but Jagdamba cautioned them indistinctly, ‘Don’t implicate us, my boy.’
The other question was: ‘What will you do with all these photos?’
Suryakant replied, ‘We’ll send them somewhere. You might even get a prize.’
‘How much?’ someone asked.
‘If you do, it will be such a huge sum that all the members of your family together won’t be able to count it. Just pray you get it.’
‘Have you brought sweets from Bhagwati Halwai’s?’ The question came from Comrade Great-grandson.
Suryakant was embarrassed. He gave him two hundred rupees awkwardly and said, ‘Please buy some sweets – let us relish them together.’
The great-grandson shook hands with Suryakant after taking the money. The crowd clapped. As if this were the proclamation of the final permission to get on with their work, Chacha and Suryakant worked quickly with their gadgets. They wanted to wrap up the photography and videography session and begin the interview.
‘How many members are there in your family?’ Suryakant asked Jagdamba.
‘Around fifty or sixty.’ He laughed with his hollow mouth and added, ‘I’m not sure.’
Evening had descended. A lantern was lighted and hung from the neem tree. Its pale light, however, did not shine on Jagdamba’s cot. Perhaps this accounted for why a few of the bystanders were shining the light from their mobile phone torches on him.
‘Was anyone from your family ever married to a Pandey of this village?’
The crowd answered, ‘What nonsense! Is it possible for a Prajapati and a Pandey to wed? In addition to the madness that people belonging to the same village are married to each other?’
‘I mean, did anyone from your house start living with any of the Pandeys? Or maybe a Pandey lived at your home? Perhaps someone was quite intimate with a Pandey family … fairly close … so close that …’ Suryakant found himself at a loss for words. He was hesitant to mention an illicit relationship to Jagdamba.
Jagdamba failed to pick up his cues. As a result, he stared witlessly at Suryakant.
‘Please tell me anything that you might remember,’ Suryakant insisted.
‘I don’t remember anything of the sort.’
‘Fine,’ Chacha said, taking over the questioning. ‘This is your house, and before you, did your father, grandfather and great-grandfather live here?’
Jagdamba stared blankly.
‘Please tell us something.’ The hopeful glint of discovering something of worth sparkled in Chacha’s voice. ‘Do you know if anyone from your family line has ever gone abroad?’
A sixty-five-year-old son of Jagdamba’s intervened and said, ‘Yes, my son works in a snacks factory in Bombay. He gets four thousand five hundred rupees a month, and the factory belongs to Raja Dubey of the neighbouring village of Nehuka.’
Chacha held on his patience. ‘I don’t mean you or your children. More than a hundred years ago, was there an ancestor who left the village and never returned?’
‘Yes.’ Jagdamba’s eyes shone in the twilight. ‘Baba.’
Someone from the throng explained, ‘That was his own grandfather. He went to Faizabad in his youth and never returned.’
‘Why did he go to Faizabad?’
Jagdamba spoke in a slurred, low voice, connecting dissociated sentences, ‘My father had told me that there was a famine that year. Drought had ravaged the place for many years. People were dying of starvation and of disease. It was said that at least one member died in each family that year. Crops withered. Food was scarce and people were fleeing to the city to survive. My grandfather also went to Faizabad to find work, but he never returned. When others came back from Faizabad, they informed us that he had left for Calcutta to earn money. God knows whether he went there or somewhere else – nobody had any news of him.’
‘All right, tell me this …’ But before Chacha could finish his sentence, Jagdamba had fallen asleep.
One of his sons said, ‘He is exhausted from speaking. He falls asleep when he is tired. Come back later.’
Suryakant felt hopeful. He thought he was very close to discovering the truth.
‘All right, we’ll leave now,’ Suryakant said, and folded his hands to say goodbye. ‘But we shall bother you again.’
Chacha stopped under another neem tree at a distance. Suryakant pressed Chacha’s palm in excitement, ‘Chacha, thank you! You really got to the bottom of it. I’m almost certain Jagdamba’s grandfather who went to Faizabad was Pandey’s Baba.’
‘Not almost – he was.’ Chacha swaggered a little at the praise.
‘But how do we solve the riddle of Pandey and the potter caste?’ Suryakant said, reining in Chacha’s enthusiasm.
‘If you try to eat hot khichri from the middle of the plate, your mouth will surely burn. Once you have started at the periphery, you’ll reach the centre by and by,’ Chacha said to Suryakant, in the manner Chanakya had counselled Chandragupta.
Suryakant propped his back against the tree trunk, ‘Chacha, since you mention khichri, I realize I’m famished.’ He bent a neem branch.
Chacha noticed his gesture, and instead of doing something to mitigate Suryakant’s hunger, he delivered a steadfast lecture, ‘What folly! Mango, blackberry, guava and ber trees bestow sweet fruit upon man; the bitter neem is of such medicinal value, but man does not worship it. He worships the banyan and the peepul because he is a slave by nature. Since the banyan and the peepal are huge and ancient, he deifies them. Look at this poor neem, its leaves are manna and its bark, if you grind and put it on a wound, it will be cured. But the tree does not enjoy the same reverence as the peepul. People don’t bother about it. They make a hue and cry only when foreigners have the neem patented …’
‘Chacha, can we go to the bazaar and eat something?’ Suryakant’s hand was not on the neem branch any more. It had moved into his pocket where his mobile phone was ringing. He answered, ‘Yes, Pradhanji? What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, sirs, where are you? We are waiting for you to join us for dinner. Please let us be of some use, sir!’ the pradhan insisted with his obsequious colloquy.
Suryakant was perplexed – why did he speak with them so strangely?
19
THE FACE WITHIN THE FACE
The fabrication of a bigger truth consists of the blood and sweat of several minor truths. So when the authenticity of a person, place or situation is to be verified, it should not be observed as the ultimate truth, but examined in its constituents. A beehive is filled with the pollen of countless flowers and requires the labour of numerous bees. Who knows the life-wind from how many trees is passed on into a single human breath? Who knows the soil of a field has blown in from which other field and how wheat, rice and maize seeds flourished in the latter to appear on our plates? Is there anyone who can say from which disparate sources water has flowed into the ocean? A person does not have a record of the steps that he walks during the voyage to his destination! So, it must be mentioned once again – if you want to realize the truth and not only perceive it, don’t examine it in its entirety, but in its constituent units minutely. If you want to understand a person, look at his eyes, the pupils of his eyes, the shape of his pupils, and the flame twinkling or dying in them. Man provides his identity through his gait, the modulation of his voice, and the pauses and the fillers between his words. If you really want to witness the truth, look at it with a telescope that has a fuzzy vision across. Everything should be vague, intangible, fuzzy, elusive – reality grows from uncertainty.
Suryakant had jotted these sentences down in his M
ayfair notebook a few years ago. Whether these were Suryakant’s original thoughts or if he had copied it from a book or had made certain alterations to someone else’s words cannot be said with certainty. It is not necessary to ascertain it at this point either. What is more significant was that he is applying the wisdom to the present times. Jagdamba’s family had given him hope in his search for Pandey’s Baba; it had now transformed into a bigger and more complex riddle. He used the formula inscribed in the Mayfair notebook to solve it. It is beside the point that he had no idea if he would even come close to the truth through this route. He could only come close to the truth because nobody has actually reached the truth, or held it in their palm. If someone draws close to the truth, so close that he can feel it, it puts on the guise of a lie at that very moment. Even the greatest saint, mystic, sage or philosopher has only come close to the truth, but has not touched it. However, Suryakant was nothing like that; he had squeezed everything from his mind and heart into the Mayfair notebooks for so many years that the notebooks had acquired a kind of mystic status. If one omits incidents like the confrontations with the tourism department or with Sampoornanand, the Mayfair notebooks had rescued Suryakant or offered him prudent advice during troubled times.
Suryakant was also a little hesitant because no one in the entire family, except the great-grandson, resembled Baba. Even the great-grandson was not exactly identical to Baba. He reminded one of Baba, but it was not concrete enough evidence to be presented as incontrovertible proof. The words from the excerpt glimmered in his mind. He decided that if Pandey’s Baba’s family had a past, he would have to deconstruct it – a single seed can multiply into plenty. Every seed is not the exact replica of the original, but is somewhat akin. And therefore, Suryakant sought refuge in his laptop, which contained several pictures of every member of Jagdamba’s family as well as a twenty-five-minute video shot by Suryakant. He was so full of energy and zeal that he felt like switching on his laptop immediately, but he knew the battery was almost gone. He plugged in the charger.
‘Your honour, dinner is waiting. Please come and partake of it.’
‘Pradhanji, we could have eaten in the market, why did you bother?’ Chacha tried a little formality.
‘Please don’t embarrass me, sir! Dinner is nothing – I would forfeit my life for you!’
Suryakant felt that either the pradhan had gone mad or that he was hearing the proclamations in a dream.
The pradhan had made sumptuous arrangements. A variety of dishes were spread out for Chacha and Suryakant. Kachori, pulao, vegetables, chutney, dahi vada, papad, sweets and watermelons. The pradhan himself did not join in the feast. He simply stood there in a servile manner, shooing away the hovering insects.
‘What was the need to go into all this trouble, Pradhanji? Suryakant said, commenting on the assortment of dishes.
‘This is nothing. It is our fortune that the distinguished dust from the illustrious feet of eminent persons such as you has been spread over our threshold.’
‘What kind of talk is this?’ Chacha was surprised.
‘Please eat,’ the pradhan said, and drew Chacha’s attention to the dinner humbly.
Dazed, Chacha and Suryakant started eating. They were starving, but also furious with the pradhan. It was perhaps the effect of this bewilderment that they consumed more than they should have. But the pradhan had not finished. He offered them paan, cardamom, fennel and pieces of coconut in a plate and pouches of paan masala in another, reminding Suryakant of Sampoornanand Brihaspati and the way he poured the masala from the pouch.
Chacha picked up a betel nut and started chewing on it but Suryakant did not feel like eating any of those things.
‘Please, take something.’ The pradhan, smiling softly, urged Suryakant to pick up a mouth freshner. Suryakant picked up a cardamom pod.
Chacha and Suryakant stood up but the pradhan implored them to sit for a while, ‘Please, a minute.’
‘Why?’ Suryakant asked.
‘I have a confession to make to you.’
‘Yes?’
The pradhan shuffled closer to Suryakant, ‘I am the Pandey whose ancestor went abroad.’
Chacha and Suryakant were flabbergasted. Chacha said, ‘But you are not of the Pandey caste.’
‘How does it matter? The fact is that it is I.’
‘Do you have any proof?’ Suryakant spoke sternly.
‘I will furnish the proof. You let Amrika Pandey know that I am his Baba’s descendant.’
‘How do you know all this? How did you find out about Amrika Pandey?’
‘From your father,’ the pradhan said. ‘He has always been kind to me. He called and told me to take care of you, and informed me about the well-heeled Pandey from Amrika. And when I rang him back to notify him about your welfare, he gave me more information.’
Suryakant grew a little scared of the pradhan, but he also felt like laughing at him.
‘I simply need your blessings.’
Suryakant stared at him, ‘If you don’t belong to the Pandey family, why are you making the claim?’
‘If you support me, I can set everything right.’
‘I can’t help you sustain this lie.’ Suryakant was angry.
The pradhan was peering at Suryakant anxiously. Perhaps he was measuring him up. He said, ‘This will profit you too. Whatever I can squeeze from Amrika Pandey, I will give you a twenty per cent cut.’
‘What nonsense is this?’
‘Thirty? Come on, what do you say to forty?’
Suryakant thought about saying something really very terrible to the pradhan, but the pradhan continued, ‘Really, neither you nor I might get such an opportunity again!’
The cotton towel which was hanging on the pradhan’s shoulders brushed Chacha’s neck lightly. Chacha moved it aside and said, ‘Thanks for such divine food, Pradhanji.’ Chacha thought that the best way to avoid the topic of the Amrika Pandey was to make a digression.
But the pradhan was determined. He went on, ‘Your honour, if you really have relished the meal and you are pleased with my service, please persuade your nephew to declare me Amrika Pandey’s heir.’
‘But Pradhanji, it is difficult … not a morsel to be swallowed easily.’
‘I’ll manage everything … if only your nephew gives me the chance, you’ll see how easy it is for me to pretend,’ the pradhan implored Chacha. ‘You are my redeemer!’
Chacha found the charade interesting, ‘Fine, Pradhanji, what’s your estimate? What bonanza do you think you will snare if you become Pandey’s heir?’
‘Listen, Amrika Pandey is an American businessman, if he shares even a crotch-fur’s worth his money, it will be enough for the opulence of my next seven generations.’
Cots for Chacha and Suryakant were laid out at the pradhan’s door. Identical mats and bedsheets with a checked pattern were spread on the cots. Perhaps they were bought at a buy-one-get-one-free sale or the pradhan had filched several matching mats and bed-sheets from some government project which distributed beds to BPL card holders.
The pradhan had set up VIP facilities for his two guests. A surahi and two glasses were placed on a stool between the beds. A pedestal fan was switched on despite the fact that the village had no electricity for the last twenty-three days. The pedestal fan was running with power from a generator, a tube light was lit on the forehead of the house. Not satisfied with these arrangements, he also had slung mosquito nets on the two cots for uninterrupted rest.
But sleep eluded Suryakand. At first, it was too early to sleep, and when it was time, sleep faded away. As if madness had possessed him, as if someone had used black magic to entrance him. He lost all control, tethered only to his laptop, putting Chacha, the pradhan, the night, the orbs and the stillness out of his mind.
The pictures of Ramajor’s Baba, Bhagelu, filled the laptop screen along with members of Jagdamba’s family. Suryakant was following the steps from the quote in the Mayfair notebook, he was now engaged in a battle
in Photoshop. Bhagelu’s visage changed completely in the mêlée. Suryakant morphed his eyes on to Jagdamba’s face, or someone else’s or another’s and examined it intently. He had removed Bhagelu’s face from Bhagelu’s photograph, and was trying to construct a face from the faces in the Jagdamba family. Myriad eyes were imposed on Bhagelu’s in the process. Ears, forehead, chin, nose, cheeks were swapped innumerable times. He tried a combination of different eyes, brows and eyelashes.
Although it may sound hyperbolical, Suryakant made so many changes that it appeared an epoch had elapsed. He looked at the sky and resolved that even if he had to play around with these faces as many times as the stars up there, he would not stop. It might seem like a random activity, but there was a method in the manner he superimposed a part of the face of some member of Jagdamba’s family on to Ramajor Pandey’s Baba. Every attempt was a step towards his goal. He took the last step at 3.40 a.m. Suryakant’s eyes widened with delight as this face was, to a large extent, almost seventy per cent, Bhagelu Pandey’s. It could be called an optimum imitation by a bad artist or perhaps it could be considered the picture of a missing person, or a fugitive, drawn from the accounts of his family, colleagues and friends.
It was the last hour of the final quarter of the night. Dawn was drawing near. Suryakant was so full of energy that he forfeited sleep and was finding it impossible to stay on the cot. So, he stood up. It was not exactly dark because the tube light was still on, but there existed the desolation and loneliness of the night amid which Suryakant stood, and he wanted to divest himself of these feelings. He called out to Chacha, but there was no reply. Suryakant called out a couple of times, and finally decided he would shake Chacha awake and share his epiphany.
He took a few steps towards Chacha’s cot to pull the mosquito net aside and wake him up, but he was stunned at what he saw. The distant light from the tube light was weak, but he could make out that Chacha’s face was drenched in tears. He was crying. Suryakant felt he should ask why Chacha was weeping. But he did not because he felt that he knew why. He shook Chacha gently and sat by him. He simply said, ‘Chacha.’ Chacha was crying his heart out, sobs racked his body.
