In the Shadow of a Dream
by Sharad Keskar
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© 2012 Sharad Keskar. All rights reserved.
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Published by AuthorHouse 7/31/12
ISBN: 978-1-4772-1531-9 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4772-1532-6 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4772-1533-3 (e)
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To Frances
With deep affection
&
To my Parents
To whom I owe my love for English Literature
Guildenstern. The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.
Hamlet. A dream itself is but a shadow.
Rosencrantz. Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
EPILOGUE
Chapter One
He promised to marry her and to take her back with him to England after the War. But he was killed in Burma. It was 1942. She was young, trusting, and when she realised she was pregnant, the unhappy woman left her nursing post at the Military Hospital in Basirabad and decided to return to her parents in Goa. Then in panic and afraid to face them, she thought it better to wait till after her child was born. It was a difficult and painful birth; the trauma of it, and the desolation of her situation, drove her to distraction. In no fit state to travel, she took her child and boarded a train. It was the wrong train. Sick and distraught, she got down when, two hours later, it stopped at a siding. The child began to cry. Mechanically she fed him and helplessly watched the train leave. She shivered and sobbed bitterly. The only other person at the siding was a man. He moved towards her but stopped when she sprang up with a sharp cry. Wide-eyed and afraid, she pressed her child to her breast and waved a hand frantically at him. He shrugged, turned back, picked up a wheel-barrow and slowly disappeared behind a shed. The woman rocked as she began to hum a lullaby. Then a sudden calm overcame her. She wrapped her boy-child in her shawl and walked the two miles of the dusty track that led to the gate of a walled village. There, on the worn steps of the Temple to Vishnu, she abandoned her child. And in the gathering smoky darkness, ran out into the unremitting isolation of the Thar Desert…
Snaking its way through the Aravalli hills, the railway track enters the hot plains of Southern Rajasthan, where the land is too barren for cities. But small villages mottle the sandy landscape near oases and alongside shallow man-made lakes. Here living is possible, though not without the obscene contrast of privilege and poverty—often a feature of Rajput villages owned by those few landlords, related to or employed by the local Rajas. But Rajputs are an ancient people, too Hindu for envy, too proud to beg, and too steeped in feudal custom and tradition to seek change.
Railway travellers, through this area of sandstorms and heat haze, on their way to Baroda from Jaipur, could miss the ancient walled village of Fatehpur, appearing, as it does, suddenly round a bend and as suddenly disappearing behind a spur of high ground. Its yellow sandstone walls are of the same colour as the silent, barren wasteland in which it is cradled. But twice each day that dun monochrome is broken. At dawn, the procession of women, in brightly coloured tight bodices and full skirts of gaudy cotton prints, pour out of the main gate; and the village comes to life like an unexpected flash flood. They come to fetch water from the lake outside the village walls; a lake hidden from view by a series of earth dams, which hide a mango grove and fertile fields beyond.
The women carry earthen-ware pitchers or shining brass ones, balanced with easy grace on their sullen heads. Then at sunset, accompanied by children, they go out to the lake again, to bathe and wash clothes. But the trains, which daily pass by at noon and midnight, miss the glorious technicolour of these spectacles and the six hundred and fifty-nine inhabitants of Fatehpur remain a hidden people. This is not deliberate, because every afternoon, at a time when their elders snatch brief siestas, children are to be seen on the ramparts waving to the goods train as its iron wagons go clattering by. They are children of better off parents, though, even for them, such displays of spontaneous enthusiasm are stolen moments before they gather under a banyan tree to recite lessons in word and number, led by a middle-aged, bearded man, wearing a white cloth cap and whom they address as “masterji”. In those same hot hours of the day, the children of the poor and destitute work in the fields and manure pits outside the village walls. From their number, the lucky hand-picked ones, armed with slings and pebbles, have the task of shooing birds away to protect the precious crops. They are hired for a pittance by caretaker-farmers who live in huts perched on stilts over fields owned by the two wealthiest landlords: Motilal, the village headman and the even richer bunnia or merchant, Seth Lala Murari.
The Sitasar, as the lake is called, is greatly valued. Every year on the eve of Holi, that riotous spring festival, the pujari or high priest and two assistants chant hymns and prayers by the lakeside mandir and make thank offerings of flowers, coconuts and incense to Lord Rama. The offerings are then taken in procession to the sound of bells and drums and thrown into the great Holika bonfire that has been lit outside the Maha Narayan Temple. Local legend has it that when Sita, Lord Rama’s wife, was abducted by the demon Ravana, who carried her off in his flying chariot, one of her sandals fell to earth and where it landed the ground wept. The tears collected to form a pool, giving credence to the fact that the water is brackish. Then, in the twelfth century, the pool was deepened and extended into a lake by Jai Singh, one of the generals of the princely state of Dinapur. He built dams, landscaped the fields behind it and planted mango trees below the high ground. Today, that mango grove, along with the sugarcane, sorghum and maize fields are a source of Lala Murari’s wealth. Beyond his fields is also a grove of mohwa trees and a secret distillery, where cane juice and the mohwa berries are used to make an intoxicating rum-like spirit. But by employing six Bhil tribesmen to work the stills, Murari caused much consternation in the village. For ages Fatehpuris have avoided contact with their Bhil neighbours for reasons of caste and because they take pride in having a temple dedicated to Vishnu, a god they consider far superior to the household gods that the Bhils worship with wild ritual and superstition.
Four Bhil settlements are within a radiu
s of twenty miles from Fatehpur, but apart from the hamlet of Bodi, they are little more than a wretched collection of mud huts. The panchayat, Fatehpur’s governing body, discouraged having Bhils in their midst by banning the sale of daru or spirits within the village walls. But they were helpless to prevent Murari setting up a canteen near the railway station. Murari managed to secure a licence from the State Government for his distillery and got permission to build an ice and soda-water factory. Liquor, in poor hardworking communities is an irresistible temptation, and the elders faced a losing battle. They hoped that when the State Government’s impending prohibition laws came into force, Murari’s business would collapse. They were to be disappointed. Murari threatened to renege on the contract that had given him a monopoly over the production of gram, ground-nuts and sesame seed. The economy of Fatehpur relied heavily on his commerce. It was blackmail and gave the village headman, Motilal, no option but to co-operate. And so, even before State Prohibition arrived, Murari had ensured for himself a growing and productive market.
Seven miles away, among the low hills on the Eastern horizon, the river Kunti, a small seasonal stream, becomes a dry course in summer and a stagnant, shallow lake in the June to August season of rains. During the building of the Sitasar dams, Jai Singh’s workers discovered the spring, which had subterranean links with the Kunti, but they decided it unwise to destroy the myth of the Sitasar. Besides, they could not explain why the water in the large well outside the village, used for irrigating the fields and also fed by the Kunti, is sweet, while that of the Sitasar is both brackish and undrinkable. The mystery of the myth remains.
In the village itself, drinking water is drawn from two small wells, and a nominal annual tax, based on each householder’s ability to pay, is levied for their upkeep. The wells are kept covered and padlocked and sentries, appointed by the panchayat, supervise the strict rationing of water. Every morning, between the hours of eight and ten, the wells are opened for the daily ration of one large pitcher-full per person. No one complains. Water is precious and made sacred by the temple authorities, who have proclaimed that anyone who took more than the allotted share will bring upon the village a curse and a punishment from the gods: the drying up of the wells.
Only women collect water, no man will be seen near a well. Single men will have some woman—mother, wife, sister, daughter or some volunteer, to collect his ration. The use of the wells follows a discriminatory practice by which higher caste women collect water before lower caste ones. But, the Government of India frowned upon such discrimination and, officially, this practice was supposed to have ended some time ago. The ruling was announced with great reluctance, but as none of the outcast villagers seemed keen to take up this new freedom, there is little evidence of change in the day to day life of the village. It comes as no surprise. In remote corners of the India, communal reforms are slow to establish. The village governing panchayats, who dislike outside interference, drag their feet on laws that weaken their powers or break with tradition.
Fatehpur’s main gate, the Burra Uttar Darwaza or Great Northern Doorway, is an impressive edifice of yellow sandstone. Smaller versions of it mark the other points of the compass. Of these, the South Gate, now blocked by fallen rock and masonry, once had a watchtower. The West Gate is for the exclusive use of Fatehpur’s menial workers, among them, the families of three sweepers, a potter, two cobblers and a Muslim butcher. One other Muslim family in this very Hindu community is that of Billu Khan, the Pathan watchman. “Billu” was the nickname, given by the villagers, after billy, the Hindi word for cat, because his eyes are a cat-like greyish green. The land beyond this gate is stony and wild with cactus and babul—the thorny mimosa. The main drain of the village empties its effluence here, and the stench, often overwhelming, is made worse by the fact that the near bank of the drain, outside the gate, is used as an open-air lavatory.
The East Gate looks over the vast flat plains. From its terrace one has a fine view of the distant hills. Here, before the coming of the railway, a mysterious Arab trader set up his tent outside the gate and kept a stable of four camels. For many years the village farmers hired them to carry their produce to the market in Biwara, a township less than thirty miles north of Fatehpur. But soon after the arrival of the railway, the man and his camels vanished as suddenly as they had appeared.
With the building of the railway, two-miles of unmetalled road, but with firm earth and gravel foundations, was built to lead from the East Gate to Fatehpur’s railway station. That station, little more than a siding, consists of a cemented brick platform and a signal-box. Here the slow train announces its arrival at noon with long blasts of its steam whistle; but the midnight Express speeds past the sleeping village. In late October, bullock carts may be seen trundling down the road with their loads of sugarcane, maize, and terracotta pottery—wheat, sorghum and other cereals are seldom surplus to the needs of the village. Occasionally the village cobbler may be seen driving a donkey cart to collect a consignment of used car tyres, which come by arrangement from a scrap merchant in Biwara. These he cuts up for resoling sandals and shoes at half the cost of leather. More often, in its moving cloud of dust, a perky Ford Prefect can be heard on the road. It is one of the two cars owned by Motilal. The other, an old black Chevrolet, also owned by him, has never moved since its noisy, backfiring arrival three years ago, but stays jacked up on bricks under a pipal fig tree next to his large lime-washed brick house. It needs a new gear-box, but Motilal is content to do nothing about that. It remains on its plinths, lovingly polished to a gleam by his driver, Bisham Singh, a retired Indian army sergeant. It is Bisham’s toy and when he is not driving his master to the station, where his son Vinod combines the job of stationmaster and signalman, he can be found tinkering with the Chevrolet aimlessly. Why he spends so much time on it remains a mystery. But as village headman, Motilal, the most powerful and fitfully benevolent member of the village council is duly respected and his cars add to his prestige. Behind his house is an oil-press, located in the centre of a sunken circular pit. It is operated by a pair of bulls, yoked under a long wooden shaft. When put to work the animals are blindfolded to prevent them getting vertigo, as they go round and round treading the same circuit. A mud and cow-dung plastered terrace surrounds the press. It is swept clean and on it cakes of the sesame seed, from which the oil has been extracted, are left to dry in the sun and stored as cattle-feed in the long low shed that runs the full length of the terrace. The walls of this shed are almost always covered with drying pats of cow dung, while on its corrugated zinc roof is a thick layer of reed and grass thatch. Under this roof, in a far corner of the shed, is a Norton motorbike that belonged to Motilal’s only son, Captain Krishna Mathur. In 1941, Krishna joined the 2nd British Infantry Division as a Liaison Officer, but was reported missing after a Japanese counter attack in the Assam Hills near Kohima. He chose to join the Army against his father’s wishes but with his mother’s support. Normally, in a Rajput household, Motilal’s objections would have prevailed, however, and this was a well-kept secret, he always deferred to his wife, Rukmini, a woman of influence and education. Her father was chief clerk to the Rajah of Mandipur and Motilal owed his appointment of village headman to him. As an only son and a good-looking young boy, Krishna was made much of and grew up to be spoilt and independent. Much of his youth was spent with his grandfather, who hired tutors to teach him English and through his considerable influence in high places, got him into the Prince’s School in Rajnagar. During school holidays, he took Krishna with him on his visits to the royal palaces of Rajasthan. Krishna admired the grand portraits of Rajahs decked in Indian Cavalry uniforms, and was smitten. He wanted not only to join the army but, like the Rajput princes he met, to study in England, at Wellington College, and from there on to Sandhurst.
‘Why not?’ Murari said, when Motilal told him about his son’s ambitions. ‘You are a rich man. You can afford it? And I will be making you richer still.’
&n
bsp; ‘No son of mine is crossing the black waters. England will give him wrong ideas and turn him of little use to me in my old age.’
‘Arrey, nonsense! Listen to me. I was surprised you agreed to his future career in the army, without consulting me. I too am not happy to have an army officer as son-in-law. But I let it pass.’ Murari’s chubby round face broke into a sly grin. ‘I see that you have allowed him take on his maternal grandfather’s surname, Mathur. These sort of decisions matter to some people…not to me. But whose idea was that?’
Motilal stared. Was Murari prying? ‘You sometimes talk in riddles, my friend.’
‘I meant, what did your wife think about his joining the army!’ Murari dodged.
‘My son’s a Rajput. We are a martial people. The army will do him good. And is he not a prince among…should he not have a surname befitting his status?’
‘Yes. Who am I to question! I’m just a merchant.’
‘No insult was intended. You and I have educated wives. So in many ways we are above old ideas and stifling traditions.’
‘Indeed, but as elders among simple folk we must not break too many rules, for the sake of the community. So now that my daughter, Veena, is eight and your son is twelve, the sagai, the formal betrothal, should take place soon.’
Motilal’s hesitated a moment. Rukmini had more than once drawn attention to the fact that while Murari had more money he was a bunnia and so of a lower caste, but she was also aware of their close business ties and wisely raised no serious objection to a liaison that the village community assumed was inevitable. ‘Yes, most certainly, and before my son goes to the Princes College. But, one thing you must understand. By Army rules, no officer may marry before he is twenty-five. Did you know that?’
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