by Farahad Zama
On the television, a journalist outside an imposing-looking building was saying, “The Delhi High Court has ruled that Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code is unconstitutional and violates the fundamental right to equality before the law.”
“Wow!” shouted Dilawar and, scrambling for the remote, raised the volume. The others looked at him curiously.
“What – ” began Rehman.
“Shh!” said Dilawar, laying a finger across his lips and leaning forward in rapt attention.
Many men and women, most of them dressed in flamboyant colours, were dancing in the street. Others were banging traditional drums with curved sticks and blowing whistles.
“It is difficult to say who are the men and who are the women,” said Aruna. “What is happening?”
“They are gays,” said Ramanujam. Aruna looked confused.
“Not just gays,” said Dilawar. “The full spectrum of LGBT community is there.” Seeing the uncomprehending looks on the faces round him, he explained, “Lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender – LGBT.” A handsome young man came on the screen. “Shaan!” cried Dilawar, then added in a softer voice, “Sorry, I know him quite well, so I was just surprised to see him so suddenly on TV.”
“Do you have any comment?” asked the journalist.
“I am very emotional at the moment,” said Shaan. “We have been fighting to overthrow this relic of the British Raj for a long time. Do people know that the law against homosexuality was created by Lord Macaulay in 1861? Now that the Delhi High Court has shown us the way, we can move forward to get laws for safety, security in marriage and jobs for the gay community. Today is a wonderful day for everybody who believes in equality in our great country.”
The reporter moved on to another man. “What do you think of the High Court’s decision, sir?”
“This is the last thing we need,” the man said. “We already have a big problem with Aids. Legalising this behaviour will only make it worse.”
“No, you idiot,” said Dilawar, drowning out the news footage. “What fans Aids in our country is not homosexuality but ignorance. Section 377 is actually obstructing those, like the Naz Foundation, who are trying to raise awareness of HIV to prevent its spread.”
“You seem to know a lot about this case,” said Ramanujam, raising his eyebrows.
“People in big cities like Mumbai are probably all aware of issues like this,” said Aruna.
Dilawar laughed. “People in big cities are not that different to people elsewhere,” he said. “It’s just that Shaan has been telling me about it.”
“You do realise that it was not the Supreme Court that made that judgment but the Delhi High Court,” said Rehman.
“Maybe all the gay people will migrate to Delhi,” said Ramanujam.
“It could become the gay capital of the country!” said Dilawar.
“My old classmate from medical college lives in Delhi. I’d better warn him about the danger,” said Ramanujam and chuckled.
“Would that be a warning or a tip-off?” said Dilawar.
Everybody was smiling now, but then Aruna frowned. “The rest of the country might see even less of this behaviour then,” said Aruna. She pointed to the screen. “But do they have to hug and kiss in public? I know people do that in foreign countries, but here even married men and women don’t act like that – it is against our culture.”
“They are just happy today, I guess,” said Dilawar. He turned to the others and said, “That reminds me of a story. This conductor used to see a young couple get on to his bus at the terminus every day. They would always sit in the same seat and were very jolly and touchy-feely, laughing and talking the entire journey. After this had gone on a long time, they disappeared. He didn’t see them for almost a month. Then one day, they were back in his bus and sat in their usual seat. But now there was no chit-chat between the couple, no touching each other, just silence. After a week or so of this changed behaviour, the conductor couldn’t resist any more. He went up and said to the couple, ‘Excuse me, I don’t mean to pry but is everything all right between you?’
“‘What do you mean?’ asked the man.
“‘I have been seeing you on my bus for almost a year now. You used to brighten up my day with your smiles and good cheer. But since you’ve come back from your break, you have changed. You don’t talk to each other any more. You avoid each other’s touch, you both look miserable. What happened?’
“‘Oh!’ said the man. ‘We got married.’”
They all laughed. Ramanujam said to Aruna, “We are not like that, are we?”
She smiled at him and said nothing. Things had been bad for a few months after they had got married. Ramanujam’s sister had been very mean to Aruna and she had felt that her husband was not supporting her. Aruna had even left home and gone back to her parents, but it had all ended well. And the last few days with just her husband and nobody else around had been blissful.
The news moved on to other topics and they switched off the TV Aruna took out sapota fruit – chikus – that she and Ramanujam had bought earlier in the day from a village market and passed round a plate of the brown, thin-skinned fruit. The chikus smelled lovely and the golden flesh under the unprepossessing brown skin was firm and sweet.
Outside, a goatherd, delayed past his normal time by a straying ewe, hurried silently past on the dark path with his mixed flock of goats and lambs. The owner of the animals would be unhappy with him for not having them locked up before nightfall. The young man hoped that the landlord would not hit him because of that. A goat got distracted by a bush and the man clicked through his cleft palate. The goat fell back in line. Animals understood the broken sounds he made better than any human except his mother.
As the years passed, he had found more and more solace in the company of his flock. His mother was growing old and couldn’t work as hard as before. He gave everything he earned to her, but he still felt bad that he couldn’t help her more. At least, he had this job, even if it didn’t pay very much. Following the animals in the forest every day, away from people, suited him. He had visited the town once as a teenager, and some kids had made fun of his disfigured face. He had never gone back.
As he passed the guest house, he looked at the puddle of warm light spilling out of the windows; he heard genial conversation and a sudden burst of laughter. The poor goatherd wondered who the lucky people were who sounded so happy and secure from all problems. A wandering holy man had once told him that everybody got the life they deserved because of the karma they had built up in their previous lives. He wondered what he had done in a previous incarnation to deserve his disability. In the next life, I will be like those people in the house, he thought. My mother tells me that I haven’t harmed a single soul in this life, so I am bound to be reborn as a rich man.
♦
Just after midnight, the door to the backyard of the largest house in the village was opened from the inside. There was no moon, and the stars shone down brilliantly. The yard was silent, the chickens were roosting in their coop, the buffaloes had stopped chewing the cud. Even the dog was asleep and did not make a sound. The hinges had been oiled just the day before and did not squeak as they usually did.
Several young men, their heads covered by sheets that also obscured their faces, rushed in, almost knocking down the man who had opened the door. He tried to run away but he was swiftly caught and thrown to the ground. A rope was produced to tie him up like a lamb being taken to market.
“What are you doing?” he said softly. “Not so tight.”
“We have to make it look realistic,” said one of the intruders and laughed, pulling once more on the rope. The last man in relatched the door. The leader of the gang pointed and signed for him to stay where he was. The man nodded and slid to the ground.
The leader went to the trussed-up man and bent over him. “Shall I kill the dog?”
“No,” said the man on the ground. “I drugged the dog and it will be asleep for hours. Leave it
alone.”
The leader nodded and gave the signal. The men spread out in pairs, making their way across the yard towards the house that still slumbered peacefully. Room by room, the terrified occupants of the house were brought into the hall. A servant maid screamed, “Dacoits, help!”
The leader moved forward quickly and stopped her mouth with his hand. “Shut up, you idiot. We are not robbers. We are Naxalites; nothing will happen to you if you do as we say.”
The woman fell silent, except for some low moans. The leader pushed her to the ground in the centre of the hall where the others also lay. A young girl, about eight years old, dark and small for her age, who also worked in the house, moved to the woman’s side and started crying silently. Big tears rolled down her cheeks. The servant maid hugged the girl tightly.
“Amma, why do they have guns?”
“Shh…my daughter. It’s nothing. We’ll be all right. Just listen to what I say and follow what I do.”
The leader surveyed the motley group, consisting of family members as well as servants.
“Where is the landlord?” he asked one of his men.
“He has locked his door. We are looking for a crowbar to break it down.”
“Make sure that there is no other exit from the room.”
“Yes, comrade,” the man said and started to make for the master bedroom.
“No, wait. He might have a mobile phone. We can’t take the time to break down the door.” He turned towards his hostages and looked at them carefully. “You!” he said, pointing to a young woman in an expensive nightdress. “Come here.”
The young woman hesitated. The leader stepped in among the hostages and pulled her up by the arm. His fingers dug into her soft skin and she flinched, but said nothing. He dragged her to her father’s bedroom and shouted through the door, “We have your daughter with us. If you do not come out this instant, I’ll start disrobing her.”
There was silence from the other side of the door. The leader waited a couple of seconds, then pulled the girl’s, head back by her hair. “What’s your name?” he asked, pushing his face close to hers, his teeth bared.
“Roja.”
There was silence inside the room. The man’s grip on Roja’s hair tightened. She raised her arms to her head ineffectually but didn’t utter a sound.
The leader raised his other hand towards the front of her nightdress, but before he could do anything more, the door opened and a tall, fat man with a luxuriant moustache emerged.
“Let her go, you brutes,” he said.
The leader abruptly released the girl and she almost fell. Stepping forward, he drove a hard fist into the fat man’s stomach, like a piledriver into soft ground. The struck man groaned and sank to the floor.
“Naanna,” cried the daughter and ran to her father, kneeling down and hugging him.
Soon, everybody was in the living room, seated in one half of the room. Apart from the landlord’s daughter, the group comprised his wife, his niece and nephew, his old mother and the servants. The young intruders stood around the perimeter of the room, holding guns and wickedly curved machetes.
The landlord was wheezing on the floor, on his knees near the front, away from the rest of the household. One of the Naxalites stood by him, holding a piece of paper, while the leader of the squad sat on a chair. On the wall to one side, the picture of Lord Venkateswara looked silently down on the entire tableau.
“Let us commence proceedings,” said the leader, raising a hand. “Comrades, the sixth squad of the People’s Revolutionary Struggle have received allegations that this bourgeois reactionary has committed crimes against the working class. Let us hear his crimes and pronounce judgment.”
The landlord and his family moaned. The man standing next to the landlord unrolled the paper in his hands. “Mr Reddy, age forty-nine, of Vizag district – is that you?”
The landlord remained silent until the man gave him a kick. He nodded. Another kick. “Yes,” he said sullenly.
“What do you do?”
“I am the village president. I have received my party’s nomination to stand as a member of the state’s legislative assembly at the next elections.” Mr Reddy looked squarely at the man seated in front of him. “You won’t get away with this, you scoundrel. I have the police in the palm of my hand. We will root you out and kill your entire group for this outrage.”
The leader leaned forward in his chair. “My name is Adi. I am the commander of this dalam. Make sure you tell that to the police so they know whom to look for.” He laughed and sat back. “Delhi is far away and I am here in the room with you. Fear me; don’t try to make me afraid, you fool.” He waved negligently to the man standing by the landlord. “Go on, Leninkumar. We have one more operation after this tonight. Let’s not waste any time.”
Leninkumar – meaning son of Lenin – read from the paper. “The first allegation: Reddy employs young children in his house and farms and makes them work long hours.”
He beckoned to the small girl sitting with the servant maid. The child looked terrified and clung to her mother. Leninkumar went over to the prisoners and smiled at the girl.
“It’s OK, dear. I just want to ask you a couple of questions. We won’t harm you.”
The mother nodded to the child and she reluctantly stepped forward.
“Good girl,” said Leninkumar, patting her on the head.
She stood slightly behind the landlord. Leninkumar got down on his knees so that his head was level with hers.
“Where do you work?” he asked.
“Here, of course,” she said.
Leninkumar struck his forehead and said, “Doh! Of course you work here. What a clever girl you are. What time do you start in the morning?”
“As soon as I wake up.”
“And what time is that?”
“I don’t know. As soon as the cock crows.”
“Oh, that is early. Do you mind starting work before the sun has come up properly?”
“No. I have been doing that since I was small.”
Leninkumar looked at the eight-year-old and smiled sadly. “I see,” he said.
The child suddenly leaned forward and said, in a little-girl voice that was meant to be a secret but carried, “Actually, in winter, I don’t want to get up. But amma tells me that we are poor and cannot sleep until the sun rises.”
Leninkumar gulped and looked away for a moment, before turning back to the girl and giving her a too-bright smile. “What work do you have to do so early in the morning?”
“I have to heat up the water for Roja-amma.” She turned and pointed to the daughter of the house. “My mother carries the water from the well in a big, black vessel and puts it on the three stones in the back of the house. She lights the fire with the kindling and I have to make sure that the dried cowpats catch fire properly. I blow air through the tube. Sometimes, I stir up the ash and it gets into my eyes and makes them water, but I am getting better. Once the water is heating up, I soak all the soiled clothes in the big tub, so that my mother can wash them later.”
“Do you go to school?”
“No. We cannot afford books. Also, I have more work to do. I help amma collect cow dung so she can pat them into discs and dry them for fuel.” The girl spread her fingers out and moved her hands as if she was flattening dough into shape.
Leninkumar made a face. “Isn’t that a bit icky?”
The girl laughed. “Yes, it is. It stinks, but I am used to it now.”
“Do you get paid any money for your work?” he asked.
The girl looked at her mother. Leninkumar turned to the servant maid. “Does your daughter get paid for the work she does?”
The woman stayed silent.
“Yes, or no? Simple answer.”
The woman shook her head. “She gets food to eat,” she mumbled.
Leninkumar kicked the landlord in the side. “How much food does a small child eat, you bastard?” he shouted. When the landlord did not reply, the young man
cuffed him on the head.
A squeak from the group of prisoners drew Leninkumar’s attention. Roja, the landlord’s daughter, was staring at him, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Her cousin was hugging her. Roja met his gaze for a moment and then dropped her eyes, looking ashamed. So she should, thought Leninkumar, hotly. He was sure that it was the first time she had thought about how her comfortable life was achieved.
The leader said, “Let us move on; are there any another allegations?”
“Yes, comrade,” said Leninkumar. He turned to the child, scooped her up in his arms and carried her back to her mother. “Good girl,” he said. “You were very brave.” He walked back to the landlord. “Does a man called Sivudu work for you?”
The landlord nodded, after a prompt.
“Sivudu…” Leninkumar called out loudly. “Are you here?”
There was silence. After a couple of minutes, the man who had opened the door to the Naxalites was brought in by two of the young men. His legs had been freed, but his upper body was still tied up with ropes.
“Free him,” said Adi. “He is a working-class man, our witness; not a prisoner.”
The ropes were rapidly cast off and the servant stood next to his kneeling master. Sivudu gazed around and his eyes settled on Leninkumar, holding a paper. He looked vaguely familiar, as if Sivudu had seen him somewhere before. It took Sivudu a moment to remember – this fighter looked like that other young man, Rehman, who was battling on behalf of the dead farmer. Sivudu peered at him closely and realised that, though they were both the same height and their noses and chins looked a bit alike, their eyes were completely different. This man’s face had a hardened look that he had not seen in Rehman.
The man tapped the paper in his hand. “Sivudu, how long have you worked in this house?”
“Five years, ayya.”
“You don’t need to address me with respect. You are older than me,” said Leninkumar. “Did you want to work here for all those years?”
