by Farahad Zama
They slipped into their seats. “Thank you, Shaan,” said Dilawar. “This is lovely.”
Shaan smiled, his beautiful face flickering in the glow of the candlelight. Dilawar’s heart skipped a beat. They raised their wineglasses.
“To friendship and love,” said Shaan.
“Friendship and love,” acknowledged Dilawar.
Dilawar took a sip. Shaan slowly moved his glass in a circle and took a deep sniff of the wine. Taking a small sip, he held the liquid in his mouth, closing his eyes. Finally, he swallowed and looked at his companion.
“Riesling’s such a transparent wine, Dee. You can smell the flowers and the clay soil. After leaving London, the one thing I’ve really missed is good wine.”
Dilawar smiled indulgently. The two men sat with their backs to the living room. A million lights had come on below them and a glowing red and yellow snake of vehicles moved along the Western Express Highway. Dilawar could make out the constellation Ursa Major, the Great Bear, in the sky above him. This was the tallest building around and the architect had done a good job. Each balcony was hidden from the view of all the others and the two friends were in complete privacy. A child’s high-pitched voice carried in the dark from a balcony somewhere underneath them and to their right. The heat of the day had dropped with the setting of the sun and a teasing breeze wafted over them.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Shaan. He twisted round and pressed a button on the remote control in his hand.
I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
What a wonderful world…
The baritone voice of Louis Armstrong lingered around the two friends on the balcony and then faded into the Mumbai sky, like smoke from a campfire into clear air.
“I raided your music collection. Hope you don’t mind,” said Shaan. He ladled a broth with king prawns, mushrooms and bamboo shoots into two bowls. “Tom Yum soup.”
“That was good,” said Dilawar when they had finished. “Quite spicy.”
“Thanks,” said Shaan. They cleared away the bowls and sat down at the table again. Shaan served steamed rice covered with Thai green curry. “It’s really supposed to be served with sticky rice, but I don’t like it, so I’ve made Basmati rice,” he said.
Dilawar took a mouthful of rice, gravy and chicken. “Lovely,” he said. “It’s just perfect.” With his eyes closed he breathed in the fragrant aroma and said, “Mmm…Smells exquisite. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
Shaan actually blushed and grinned, showing his white, even teeth. “In London,” he said. “As a student.”
As his father was a rich industrialist, Shaan’s college days had been very comfortable. When he returned home with a degree and a new knowledge about himself, he had gone straight to his parents and told them that he was gay. His father had ranted and raved that no son of his would insult him by being anything less than a man. Shaan was the youngest child and favourite son of his mother, and she shed many tears. When his father realised that Shaan would not change, he threw him out and told Shaan’s two brothers and sister not to have any contact with their sibling.
“My mother called today,” said Shaan. “She is going with Dad to Switzerland. They are accompanying the commerce minister to Davos for the economic forum.” His mother secretly kept in touch with him, from time to time.
Dilawar raised his eyebrows. “Davos, with the minister? That’s quite an honour.”
Shaan shrugged. “Honour, shmonour,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about why Dad was so angry with me. I think he is actually a closet gay.”
Dilawar choked and coughed. His eyes watered and he hit the back of his head with the palm of his hand to clear his airway. Shaan held out a glass of water to him and Dilawar took a sip.
“You are crazy,” he said weakly, when he got his voice back. “It’s your father you are talking about.”
“Oh, he would commit suicide before admitting it even to himself, but I am certain.”
Dilawar laughed. “I wish you wouldn’t spring such things on me when I am eating. I nearly choked.”
Having finished their meal, they dragged their chairs closer to one another. Stretching out their legs on the railing of the I balcony, they sat in companionable silence, sipping the wine. Louis Armstrong’s songs had long ended.
“When are you going to London?” Dilawar asked.
“Next week. Be good while I am gone.”
Dilawar looked at his friend and grinned. “I should be saying that to you. I am sure you’ll have more opportunity there than I’ll have here.”
Shaan smiled. “You are right. London’s a great place. Let’s plan a holiday there. I can take you round and show you so many places. We should go in July or August. There’s probably no more pleasant a place on earth than England on a nice summer day.”
Dilawar nodded. “I don’t have a passport. Let me start with that.”
They lapsed into silence once more. Dilawar thought he agreed with the old crooner. It was indeed a wonderful world.
“Look,” said Dilawar, pointing into the starry sky.
A meteorite made its quick, fiery dash towards the earth. Shaan smiled at him. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s the first time I’ve seen a shooting star.”
Dilawar shook his head and placed his hand on Shaan’s knee. “No, thank you. I have always been confused about what I am. All my previous encounters have been furtive and left me feeling unclean and guilty. You have shown me tonight that it need not be like that.”
Silence fell between them again. Dilawar drank in the younger man’s profile and his heart started beating faster. The thought of Shaan being away for a whole week, among his old friends in London, was like a spear in his heart. The strength of his feeling surprised him. He bit his lower lip and looked away, towards the hills in the distance. Was this what love felt like?
Six
When Rehman woke up the next day, he couldn’t figure out for a moment where he was. Roughly hewn beams of fibrous wood held up the thatched palm-leaf roof above him. Cobwebs stretched out in every corner. A cow’s long moo came from outside. He remembered…
Vasu had lived here with his grandfather, after Vasu’s parents – very good friends of Rehman – had died within a short time of each other. Then, a few months ago, Mr Naidu had taken his life after a disastrous harvest had left him in debt to a farming company that had supplied him with seeds, fertilizer and technical advice. None of Mr Naidu’s relations in the village had been willing to take in the boy, because of a superstitious belief that Vasu brought bad luck to his guardians, as evidenced by the fact that his father, then his mother and finally his grandfather had all died while looking after him. Rehman had taken Vasu with him to the town of Vizag and Pari had adopted him.
Had Mr Naidu’s fields really been sold off? Was there any money left from the sale after the debt was paid oft? Who owned this house now? Whatever was left of all this belonged to Vasu and Rehman wanted to make sure that the boy was not short-changed. Also, Pari had told him to collect Vasu’s birth certificate and any other papers he could find.
She had said, “Who knows what we’ll need in future? Just get everything you can lay your hands on that has a mention of Vasu or his parents or grandparents. It will also be good for him to have those details when he grows up.”
Rehman got out of the cot. His back felt as if it were crisscrossed with hot brands from the hemp rope with which the cot was strung. The thin sheet had done nothing to cushion him. He went into the courtyard at the back, drew water from the well and performed his ablutions, shivering from the cold water. He watered the mango tree that Mr Naidu had planted just before his death. It was small and hadn’t yet rooted firmly into the ground. When he arrived yesterday it was looking very sorry indeed. Now its leaves were standing proud and shiny.
Rehman walked outside. A man in shirt and trousers went past him on
the street – a commuter to the nearby town. A couple of women were carrying water in plastic vessels on their heads. Fresh cowpats lay on the dusty road and a girl ran over and started collecting them. The dung would be dried in the sun and used as fuel for cooking.
Rehman knocked on the open door of the neighbouring house. The previous evening, Mr Naidu’s cousin had invited him over for breakfast. After they had eaten, the cousin, whose name was also Mr Naidu, accompanied Rehman to the panchayat office to see the village secretary.
“Without somebody from the village, the secretary won’t do anything,” the cousin said.
The secretary was not in. An old man, the caretaker, said that the local Member of Parliament was visiting the nearby town and the secretary had gone to see him.
“The president is in, though,” the old man said. “He belongs to the opposition party and won’t visit the MP,” he clarified.
“Mr Reddy, BA,” said the nameplate on the door. Traditionally, the panchayat was the village council of five elders. In this democratic age, the five are elected by the villagers but the councils are still mostly dominated by the landowning castes.
The president, Mr Reddy, was a tall, bluff man with a bushy moustache. Rumour had it that he was angling for his party’s nomination as the candidate for the state’s legislature in the next election.
“Ha, Naidu,” he said, to the cousin. “What can I do for you? And who is this foreigner?”
“Namaste, saar,” said Mr Naidu. “This is Rehman, the man from the city who helped my cousin.”
“Please sit down,” the president said.
The caretaker came in and Mr Reddy asked him to get two teas. The caretaker nodded and left the room. Mr Reddy turned to Rehman.
“I’ve heard about you, young man. Any friend of one of my village people is a friend of mine. You not only helped the poor man before he died but also helped the whole Naidu caste afterwards by taking the boy away.”
Mr Naidu’s cousin looked embarrassed. Rehman shrugged. “I just did what I had to,” he said.
“Don’t be modest, young man. Nobody here wanted to take the orphan into their family after his grandfather died. You did something brave.” He turned to Mr Naidu. “I am not saying that you didn’t have a very good reason. Anybody could see that boy was bad luck.”
The president must have realised that, while Rehman was an outsider and didn’t have a vote, the Naidu caste were at least fifty strong in the village. Rehman suppressed a grin at the thought.
Mr Reddy turned to Rehman again. “Is everything all right with you? Have you had any misfortune since you took the boy into your family?” he asked.
Rehman reflected on the past few months. He had been engaged to be married to Usha and she had broken it off. While his immediate sense of despair had dissipated as the weeks went by, his heart still ached. Pari had adopted Vasu now, of course, and she had lost her job.
“No,” he said, brightly. “Everything’s fine. Vasu is doing well – he has just started school. No problems at all.”
Mr Reddy nodded. “Good to hear that. But you didn’t come here to listen to my speeches. What can I do for you?”
“The boy’s grandfather owned three acres of land and the house in the village. I want to know what has happened to them and to make sure that Vasu inherits what’s his.”
“The secretary is away. He has all the papers. But I know that the cotton company has placed a lien against the farm. I am pretty sure there is no charge on the house.”
“What does that mean? Does the land belong to Vasu or not?”
“In theory, yes. However, it cannot be sold or mortgaged without the charge being cleared. At some point, the company will ask for its money back and then it either has to be repaid or the land will be auctioned off.”
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know,” said the president. “To be frank, I don’t like outsiders coming and forcing us farmers to sell our lands. And Mr Naidu has already paid the ultimate price. I will delay the matter as much as I can. Once these companies get the idea that they can ride roughshod over us, who knows where it will end?”
Rehman nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “We’ll come back when the secretary is here.”
They took their leave and emerged into the bright sunshine.
“That reminds me,” said Rehman. “We never got the tea that he ordered.”
Mr Naidu pointed to a buffalo with glossy black skin that was calmly tugging at a bundle of straw in the shade of a mud wall. “You could have waited until that buffalo had finished chewing its cud and still not got your tea.”
“Why?” said Rehman. “He told that old caretaker to get it.”
“That was just to make you feel good without that tightwad having to spend any money.”
“But what if we were really important visitors? How would the old man know when he was supposed to bring us tea?”
“Do you remember that he asked for two teas? If he had wanted three teas, including one for himself, the caretaker would have known to get them.”
Rehman laughed. “I certainly got fooled.”
“The whole village knows he is a miser. What else can a moneylender do but hoard his gold, counting every sovereign?”
“Why do the villagers vote for him then?”
Mr Naidu shrugged. “He has a web of contacts – many people depend on him for their livelihoods in one form or another. He can make their lives miserable if they don’t support him. Don’t get me wrong – it is not all intimidation. He can also be charming when he wants to be. He is like the jackal in the children’s story that ingratiates itself with lions and fights with smaller animals to get what it wants.”
Rehman nodded. Even in a small village, there were wheels within wheels.
♦
Later that afternoon, Rehman was sitting in the shade in front of the hut, going through a metal trunk that he had dragged outside. It looked as if Vasu’s grandfather had not thrown out a single paper. The trunk held the adangal – the land ownership papers, Vasu’s school books, Vasu’s father’s practical notes from college, old calendars with pictures of gods and goddesses, and simple tallies of the sacks of grain he had sold in the markets over the years. Vasu’s grandfather had been illiterate. He knew how to read and write numbers, but not words.
It was probably easier for the old man to store all the papers than to risk throwing away anything important by mistake, thought Rehman. I should just take the whole trunk back to town. Vasu can decide what he wants to keep and what he wants to throw away when he grows up. It is not my place to choose.
A male voice said, “The president is asking for you. He wants you to come to his house.”
Rehman looked up. A thin, wiry man in his thirties was standing in front of him. He was bare-chested and wore a panchi, a long cloth wrapped around his waist, like a typical villager. Rehman had never seen him before.
“All right,” said Rehman. “Wait a moment.”
He started putting the papers and books back in the trunk. The man continued to stand there, making Rehman uncomfortable. “Sit down,” he said. “You don’t need to stand.”
The man squatted on the ground.
“No, no,” said Rehman. He took some old engineering textbooks of Vasu’s father from a three-legged stool and said, “Sit here.”
The man shook his head. “It is better if I stay where I am, sir,” he said. “It won’t look good if anybody sees me sitting on the same level as you.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Rehman, but the man did not budge. Shrugging his shoulders, Rehman quickly packed everything away and locked the trunk. The man was from a lower caste and while it did not make a difference to Rehman where he sat, the villagers probably had a different opinion. As Rehman stood up, he saw the man’s eyes fixed on the ground next to the trunk, staring intently, like a hungry tiger gazing at a tethered lamb. Rehman saw that he had left out the deeds to Mr Naidu’s fields. The president’s man was almost
definitely illiterate, but it was clear that he had recognised the adangal – the official document on stamped paper, detailing the chain of ownership of land over at least one hundred years.
Rehman sighed in annoyance, unlocked the trunk and put the deeds away, before dragging the heavy trunk back into its place in the hut.
“Was Mr Naidu a relative of yours?” the man asked as they walked towards the president’s house.
“No,” said Rehman. “Did you know him?”
The man shrugged. “I worked for him occasionally during harvest time,” he said. “He wasn’t bad for a landowner.”
Rehman nodded. A few seconds later, the man said, “I heard that you are going to fight the company who lent the money to Mr Naidu.”
Rehman said, “Where did you hear that? Anyway, the company did not lend the money. They supplied Mr Naidu with seeds and fertilizer.”
The man said, “It comes to the same thing, doesn’t it? If he was not family, why are you wasting so much effort in fighting for his cause?”
Rehman didn’t answer immediately. They walked on in silence for a moment.
“Should we only look after ourselves?” Rehman said finally. “Aren’t humans better than animals who think only of their own hunger and thirst and feed just their own children?”
The man gave a short laugh – almost a grunt. “Poor people don’t have the luxury of such philosophy, sir. We can think only of our own needs.”
Rehman nodded silently, not knowing what to say. He noticed that the man’s heels were cracked and callused after a lifetime of going barefoot.
As they reached the end of the street, the man guided them on to a narrow path between the temple wall and a ditch. They had to walk single file; the path was stony and dotted with thorny ground creepers, but the unshod man just walked stolidly on, as if the soles of his feet were made of tough leather.
Rehman asked, “What’s your name? What do you do?”
The man turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. “My name is Sivudu. I am a labourer for the president. I work wherever he tells me – sometimes in the house, sometimes in his shop or in one of his farms at sowing and harvest time. If you have the energy to spare, why don’t you help us poor people instead of taking on a rich man’s problem?”
