The whistle of the train at the railway station pierced Baroo’s ears like an arrow. He spat on the ground. He swore at the train and the man who had invented it. The express thundered by. And then the shuttle. ‘It’s these incestuous trains!’ he cursed. ‘One every hour,’ and again he cried at the top of his voice for a passenger.
He lit another bidi. He inhaled strongly and in one long pull smoked away half of it. He exhaled through his nostrils, cursed the bidi and threw it away. The smoke burnt his mouth as if he had swallowed a handful of chillies.
The horse was restless. It stamped the earth with its hoofs; champed the bit between its teeth, shook the shafts of the tonga and the harness. The multi-coloured plume on its head fluttered in the air; the silk scarves tied to the bit waved like banners. A surge of pride went through Baroo’s frame. ‘Patience, brother! we’ll soon be racing the wind...’
‘Baroo, your horse is full of life; its always stamping its feet,’ remarked the hawker.
‘No horse like my horse!’ exclaimed Baroo. ‘Just look at the sheen of its coat! A fly would slither down if it alighted. I look after it as if it were my own son.’
‘That’s the only way to get the best out of an animal!’ agreed the hawker.
The sun came up; but still no passenger for Khanna. More tongas came to the stand. And across the road Kundan was also calling for passengers for Khanna.
Baroo caught sight of a well-dressed man with a bag in his hand coming down the bazaar. Baroo watched his movements with a hawk’s eye. The man came nearer the stand but gave no indication of where he was bound. The tongawallahs began to shout.
‘Come along here for Sirhind!’ ...‘Anyone for Maloh — O!’ But the man betrayed no sign of his destination. When Baroo called for Khanna, the man did not as much as look up. ‘These new-fangled gentlemen!’ muttered Baroo to himself ‘They’re never in a hurry to open their mouths.’
The man stopped by Baroo’s tonga and enquired in a barely audible voice, ‘Have you any other passenger...?’
Baroo leapt down to take the man’s bag and spoke most politely, ‘Sir, you take the front seat... we’ll leave in a jiffy — just take one more passenger.’
The man did not let go of his bag. What was the point of sitting in a tonga for an hour or more? He walked up to the front of the tonga and stopped near the footrest.
Baroo yelled as loud as he could for another passenger just one more passenger.
The man dumped his bag on the front seat and began to stroll around with his hands in his trouser pockets. Baroo patted his horse on the flanks and then began readjusting the rear seat. A cycle-rickshaw came and stopped by the tonga. The rickshawpuller struck a bargain with Baroo’s passenger. Baroo’s heart sank. ‘Babuji, there’s strong head wind...’ The cycle rickshaw won and bore its booty away.
The day was well-advanced.
Baroo went and sat by the hawker on the pavement. He had a strong urge to smoke his favourite brand of cigarette. But how could he squander two whole pice on a single cigarette? It looked like being a poor day. The rate was only four annas per passenger for Khanna; and there was a law against taking more than six. If he got only one load, it would be only one and a half rupees... it took three rupees every day to feed the horse. Why was he idling away his time on the pavement? He went and sat down on the rear seat of his tonga. Prospective travellers would feel that there was at least one passenger already present.
He began humming a film song and then a couplet out of Heer Ranjha. Then he stopped abruptly and peered at the fields at the distance. He espied a group of peasants coming along a footpath that coiled its way through the crops. In front were four rustics wrapped in black and white shawls. They looked as if bound for the law courts. Baroo turned his tonga towards them and shouted: ‘Going to Khanna, Chaudhary? Let’s be on our way.’
The peasants looked at each other. One of them spoke. ‘We are bound for Khanna; but we will only go if you leave at once.’
‘Certainly!’ Baroo assured them. ‘As soon as you are seated we’ll be on our way.’ Baroo grabbed the reins near the bit and turned his tonga towards the stand.
‘We have to get to the tehsildar’s court. We have a hearing at Samrala.’
‘You get on the tonga. I’ll get you there in a jiffy.’ The men took their seats. Baroo turned towards the stand calling for just ‘One more passenger’.
‘Are you still looking for another?’ asked one of the peasants. ‘We should have known. A tongawala is always a tongawala.’
‘Oh, let him make his living too,’ replied another. ‘It won’t hurt us if we are a few seconds late.’
From the stand Baroo drove his tonga into the bazaar. He stood on the shaft and yelled, ‘Anyone bound for Khanna — baiee-o one seat for Khanna.’
‘You want to rob a lone passenger on the way?’ shouted someone from the pavement. People began to laugh. Baroo bared his teeth in a grin showing his red gums. He joined in the laughter but continued calling for ‘one passenger’. He parked his tonga on one side of the road leading to Khanna and rejoined the hawker.
‘You are behaving exactly like other tongawallahs,’ complained one of the passengers.
‘Brother tongawallah, why do you harass us?’ said another.
‘We’re not going to wait, Chaudhary! Just one more passenger. If he turns up, so much the better. If he does not, we’ll go without him.’
Kundan noticed the agitation of Baroo’s passenger. He took his tonga closer to Baroo’s. ‘I can take your passengers to Khanna...’
‘Lay off, you son of a barber! Lay off your dirty ways!’
Baroo glowered at Kundan. He saw a cluster of women coming up. ‘We’ll be off now, Sardarji. There come more passengers.’
The peasants also saw the party of women and decided to wait a little longer.
The party came closer. Some of the women carried trays covered with tray cloths. The older women had veils drawn across their faces. The girls were in colouful costumes. Baroo stepped in front of the party and addressed them in a tone in which a dutiful son would address his mother. ‘Maiji, we were just waiting for you. Come along to Khanna’.
‘No brother, we are on our way to the temple of the Mother-Goddess,’ she replied casually.
‘Yes, of course, Maiji,’ said Baroo a little crestfallen.
‘Oi, are you ever going to leave?’ grumbled one of his party.
What an impatient lot passengers are!
Baroo had come to the end of his tether. He spoke candidly. ‘It won’t be long now. Just wait for one more passenger. Let me get my journey’s worth.’
‘While you count your costs, we’ll have our case dismissed.’
Kundan chipped in again. ‘Some people can be very simple and get caught in booby traps. This chap won’t start; and if he does he’ll never get you there. You’ll find yourselves in a ditch. His horse is the wildest creature alive.’
Baroo turned pale with anger. He tried to keep his temper in control as he spoke to Kundan. ‘Barber’s son, is it the angel of death which makes you babble so? Go and get your Mama to oil your rickety cart; it creaks in every joint. And don’t waste your time yapping like a pup.’
Kundan smacked his foot with his whip and called in an irritated tone: ‘Come along all of you? I’ll take three to Khanna on my chariot! I’ll get you to Khanna in less than a minute... and for three annas only.’ He edged his tonga forward.
Baroo’s passengers were a little fed up. They didn’t feel they were tied to him by any solemn contract. They began to dismount.
Baroo was in a rage. He called Kundan an incestuous raper of his mother. He tucked one end of his tehmad in his waist and challenged Kundan, ‘Get off your trap, little boy.’
Baroo’s temper unnerved Kundan. Nevertheless he dismounted. ‘Mind your language, you bloody brewer!’
Baroo uttered another full-mouthed abuse and flourished his whip. ‘You filthy fornicator of your sister! I’ll pass you through the spokes of th
e wheel of my tonga.’
‘I dare you to touch me!’ Kundan kept a brave face despite his fright.
‘Vanish, make yourself disappear, barber’s son! I’ll drink up your blood without letting a drop fall on the ground.’
Baroo only waited for Kundan to abuse him so that he could knock him down.
‘What have I said to you that you should widen your nostrils in anger at me?’ asked Kundan a little nervously.
‘You steal my passengers.’
‘I just call for passengers; you can tie up the ones you have.’
‘I’ve been watching you since the morning; I’ll tear up your top-knot by the roots.’
‘You’ll pull my top-knot will you?’
‘You dare take over my passengers!’
‘Come along Babaji,’ said Kundan taking one of the peasants by the shoulder.
Baroo caught Kundan by the collar. Kundan grappled with him. The two began to wrestle. People rushed up to separate them. It took some time for the other tongawallahs and the passengers to get the two apart. The contractor of the stand reprimanded them both soundly. Everyone was agreed that the passengers should go in Baroo’s tonga. The passengers again took their seats.
People felt that he had had a raw deal and felt sorry for him; they wanted to get him the additional passenger and send him on his way. Even his passengers were willing to wait a little longer to let Baroo earn his full fare. All said and done, the poor chap had to fill his horse’s belly before he could fill his own.
A head-constable of police came and enquired. ‘Lads, any tonga leaving for Khanna?’
Baroo turned over the pros and cons in his mind. This chap wasn’t going to pay a pice; but one could not say ‘no’ to a policeman. And with him there, he might put in two extra passengers. ‘Come Havildarji! my tonga is ready to leave. Take the front seat.’
The Head-constable got on the tonga. Baroo called at the top of his voice for one more passenger.’
A shopkeeper came up from the bazaar and without a word got on Baroo’s tonga. Two old women were coming up the road leading to the stand. Baroo called out to them, ‘Mai, you want to go to Khanna?’ The women quickened their steps. One of them held up her hand, ‘Hold on, brother!’
‘Hurry up ladies,’ exorted Baroo impatiently.
The women hurried up and clambered up the tonga. ‘Brother, what will you be wanting?’
‘Take your seats ladies. I won’t fleece you!’
The tonga had eight passengers full-two rupees worth of fares. Perhaps the Lord would send along some more by the time he left and he might do a second trip. Baroo paid his tax to the contractor.
‘I hope you won’t look for more passengers now,’ exclaimed one of the peasants.
‘No Sirs, enough is enough. We’ll take the name of the Lord and start.’ Baroo patted his horse and untied the rope from the shafts.
He thought he might now buy himself a cigarette. He leapt off the tonga and went to the hawker to buy one of his favourite brand.
The Ambala-Ludhiana bus drew up beside the tonga. In a trice the passengers left the tonga and disappeared into the bus. The bus snorted like a dragon and vanished leaving clouds of diesel smoke and dust to settle on the tonga-drivers’ faces.
Baroo stood in the centre of the stand, held up his whip and called with all his might: ‘One seat for Khanna, baiee o.’
breaking point
Usha Mahajan
In the afternoons this corner of the restaurant was usually empty. By the evening the place filled up and it was futile coming there without a prior reservation in the hope of finding a place. That evening it appeared as if the whole of Calcutta had turned up for tea. Right from the elevators upto the entrance there was a queue waiting for tables and greedily eyeing those inside.
‘I hope you haven’t been waiting for too long!’ he said as he sat down on the sofa and stretched his left leg to get his handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. ‘There was heavy traffic all along the route. See, how I am sweating! And it’s winter time.’
Madhukar wiped the beads of perspiration off his forehead. She fixed her gaze on him. He did not sound as if he was lying; he had a childlike innocence about him. She wanted to take the end of her sari and mop the pearls of sweat from his body.
‘Why are you looking at me in this way?’ he asked tenderly. He noticed her twisting the ends of her sari between her fingers. Gently he took her hand. The storm of emotions gathering within her found an outlet. Before she could check herself, the words burst out of her mouth, ‘Madhukar, do you love me?’
He was taken aback almost as if his hand had touched a live wire or an icy blast of wind had blown into the easy corner of the restaurant and chilled the atmosphere. He suddenly let go her hand and sank back into his seat. ‘The waiter is coming to take our order,’ he replied and tried to look very businesslike.
Madhukar’s reluctance to answer a direct question made her very unsure of herself. How could she have been so brash as to expose herself so shamelessly before him? She felt as if a tidal wave of disillusionment had suddenly swept her off her feet and cast her on the hard rocks of reality. She realised she had blundered and felt sorry for herself. Married couples who have lived together for many years do not ever dare to ask each other such questions. What right had she to do so on the strength of just a few meetings?
Why did she have to bring up the question of love in their relationship? He was doing everything he could for her. He took her out for lunches and dinners to the most expensive joints in the city. And the countless little things he was always doing for her! Despite all that every time they met she looked into his eyes to find an answer to just one question.
Madhudar glanced at his wrist watch and said, ‘Neera, I forgot about an appointment I made for four o’clock to see a patient in Ballygunge. It slipped out of my mind. Let’s go; we’ll come here another evening.’ And without waiting for an answer, he got up and announced, ‘I will drop you on the way.’
She followed him out of the restaurant feeling smaller and smaller till she felt reduced to a midget.
‘Don’t worry about me. It will make you go out of your way. I’ll get home on my own,’ she said trying hard to smile.
She spent the night thinking about him. She knew she should not see anymore of Madhukar; but she also knew she would not be able to keep up her resolve. The more she tried to put him out of her mind, the stronger became her desire to win over Madhukar’s heart. The next evening when Madhukar dropped in on the excuse of seeing her sick husband, she felt she had got a second lease of life. He brought him a bouquet of flowers; she knew that it was really meant for her because they were her favourite gladioli. He knew she kept them in her vase till the last blossom had withered away.
As she was leaving, he touched her lightly on her shoulders and murmured, ‘Sorry about last evening.’
Neera could not make out what he was apologising about for — not having replied to her question or not having given her tea. However, she felt there must be something abiding in their relationship to make him come to see her. Maybe soon the time would come when she could put him the same question and he would answer, ‘Yes.’
All said and done, what else is it that keeps humans alive except hope. It was the same with her husband. He had been badly injured in a traffic accident but had hung on to life in the hope that he would be his old self again.
She remembered how lying in bed in the hospital, he had said, ‘Neera, I don’t think I will be of any use to you any longer. Would you like to be freed of me?’
She had broken down. She had run her trembling fingers across the face of the man who had been her life’s support but was now lying disabled and helpless. She reassured him, ‘Don’t ever say such things again. I’ll never leave you. I wish God had inflicted this injury on me rather than on you.’
Time takes its toll of everything. It not only ages the face and the body but the head and the heart as well. Time makes people forget their
own worlds, forget the solemnity of vows made. When rains fall, withered trees begin to sprout fresh leaves. The scorching sun of midsummer turns the same green woodland into a barren desert. There was time when she had waited anxiously all day for the evening when her husband would be back home. And now that he was home all day long, she felt that there was nothing left in the world for her to look forward to.
How could she ever forget what Madhukar had done for her! When her world had become pitch-dark without a glimmer of hope anywhere, he had taken her out into the light. He had assuaged the pain that she had inflicted upon herself through self-torture. She had become a living corpse; he had breathed life back into her.
‘Look upon me as a friend. Tell me all that you have on your mind. Grief shared is a burden lightened,’ Madhukar had said to solace her.
Alas! if only anguish in the heart could be lessened by opening it out to others! Inner sorrow is an unending, wordless tale which only the truly concerned can comprehend.
At the time she felt that no one could read her mind better than Madhukar. She started adorning her days and nights with the pearls of dreams surrounding him. In her desert she saw a mirage of sparkling, life-giving water. Never before in her life had she felt herself closer to anyone as she felt to Madhukar.
The last five years had not been without meaning for them. They had gone a long way together. He set the pace, holding her hand in a tight grasp to help her keep up with him. His name was now listed amongst the most successful doctors in the city. He never had any problem with money; now he had plenty to squander. He could not bear to see Neera living in a miserable, dilapidated tenement in Tollygunj. He bought her a spacious apartment in Calcutta’s upper class south district and made special arrangements for her husband’s treatment. The same Madhukar who had shied away on hearing the word ‘love’ had showered her with affection. He had also seen how devoted Neera was to him. She catered to every little whim that took his fancy; in his hands she was like a puppet dancing to his tune. All this was concrete proof, if any were needed, that in his happiness she found fulfilment.
Land of Five Rivers Page 15
