The Rat Eater

by Anand Ranganathan

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen: Rhodes, not the Rhodes scholar, is to blame.’

  It was as though Mr Menon had been struck by lightning. ‘Oh my. Did she, did she just?...Blast.’

  ‘Well, I heard it too, didn’t I.’

  ‘Good heavens, sir. She’s gone a touch too far, I think…’

  ‘Indeed, indeed.’

  ‘This is what dear Cecil said of his Anglo-Saxon race and I quote: “I contend that we are the first race in the world and that the more of the world we inhabit the better it is for the human race.”’

  Sweat was pouring off Aparajita’s face; her eyes shone like blazing coals.

  ‘…And this is what he wrote in his will: “A fund for promotion and development, the true aim and object whereof shall be for the extension of British rule throughout the world, and of colonisation by British subjects of all lands where the means of livelihood are attainable by energy, labour and enterprise, and especially the occupation by British settlers of the entire continent of Africa, and, finally, the foundation of so great a power as to render wars impossible, and promote the best interests of humanity.”’

  ‘Best interests. Peace. Humanity.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You didn’t plan all this, did you, sir—knowing very well that I was coming…?’

  ‘No no, V.D., what are you saying, man. How can we—we love Rhodes.’

  ‘…The great men who built empires, those imperious men—they set in stone the plans, the intricate designs, the embroidery, for the like-minded to hide their misdemeanours against the vanquished. Hereroes, Aboriginals, Jews, Indians, Asians, are all there—but in the back pages, and you flip the history books before you turn off that night lamp and they are gone.

  ‘These great men believed that the best way to rework their grotesque reality was to remove a small sum from their loot and start a goodwill fund. And so they decided, one fine day, to chuck a few pennies in the piss-pot—their money, blood money, snatched from the land that did not rightfully belong to them…’

  Mr Menon clucked his tongue. ‘Good Lord and heavens above.’

  ‘Well, I am with you on this, V.D. She’s stretched it alright.’

  ‘I didn’t come all the way to listen to this…’

  ‘Well, you do what you have to do, V.D., old chap.’

  ‘Quite, sir. We can always win the shield back next year, can’t we?’

  ‘Indeed, indeed…’

  ‘…self-gloating in their aspirations to be remembered as visionaries who allowed countless to obtain excellent education. And how right they were. People still see them as visionaries. So maybe there’s a case for an Adolf Hitler Scholarship. You seem aghast. But didn’t dear Adolf do a lot for the German people? Did he not pull the nation out of recession? Provide jobs and holidays to millions? Build thousands of roads and hundreds of bridges? Did he not preserve and extend the territories and protectorates of the German Reich? Yes, he did. You only have to go and ask your brothers and sisters in Tanzania, in Ruanda, in Burundi, in Namibia, in Cameroon, in Ghana, in Togo. And never mind the small matter of soaps made of human fat and lampshades made of human skin.

  ‘Or would you like to study on a King Leopold Scholarship? In which case you would have to take a trek down to the mountains of Congo and ask your brothers there. They are all happy there, the million Roys, the Gurbakhshes, the Chimanbhais. They will be delighted to see you and tell you nice little stories of imperialism over a cup of tea and scones. And they will tell you that you can fight colonialism but you can’t fight a colonised mind. It is easy to free a piece of land. But to free a mind—well, that’s another story, for another day. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’

  There followed stunned silence. It was clear that the audience wanted Aparajita to go on. As she walked away, the hall erupted in a standing ovation. Aparajita marched down the steps and took her seat at the end of the first row, wiping away the sweat with her pallu.

  Ajay tiptoed over to the podium. ‘…Yes, thanks a lot, Aparajita. That was, well, that was wonderful…Now. Ladies and gentlemen, please be patient—Mr Menon would, I am sure, like to take a few minutes to decide who…’

  Mr Menon coughed and cleared his throat. ‘Er, Ajay?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Menon...Oh, you…No no, great, that’s great…Er, ladies and gentlemen, great news. Mr Menon is all set with the results already. I now request him to kindly announce the winner of this year’s contest…Mr Menon, sir.’

  Mr Menon got up slowly from his chair, allowing the audience to see one more time the Savile Row artistry, the John Lobb cobblery, and plain and simple snobbery. He drew out his Oxbridge cufflinks, straightened his MCC tie, and grabbed the mic. ‘Yes, thank you. Principal saab, vice principal saab, my teachers, friends.

  ‘First of all, I would like to thank principal saab for inviting me to come and judge this year’s debate which, without a shadow of doubt, has been the best I have heard in years—on this stage, in the Supreme Court, in the House of Commons, in the US senate, or for that matter, in our parliament. I recall the time when, during one excellent debate in the American senate, President Reagan—who knew me personally, I might add and so did Nancy, by the way—I remember him nudging me with his elbow as if to say: Do they have such good debates over in India, V.D.? Well, I wish Ron were present here today; he’d have got his answer. The speeches were articulated with such near-perfection, that one couldn’t—at least I couldn’t—waver my attention even for a second. So, well done to both of you. But, sadly, there always has to be one winner, even though it was a real close call this year.

  ‘I am delighted to announce the winner of the Thirty-eighth Mukerji Memorial Debate Competition…Mr Sameer Goel of Hindu College.’

  There would have been less astonishment had India won a medal at the Olympics. Still, blood runs thick, and so the back seats erupted. ‘Yay!...yay… Hindu Hindu Hin-doooo! Hindu Hindu Hin-doooo.’

  ‘Hindu Hindu Hin-doooo!’

  ‘Hindu Hindu Hin-doooo!’

  Mr Menon fashioned a smile and continued. ‘So, well done to our cousins across the road…And well done to Miss Aparajita, too. You fought valiantly—and there’s always the next time.’

  Ajay came forward. ‘…Yes, thank you, Mr Menon. Now if you could kindly hand over the shield to Sameer…and the cheque, of course…’

  It was left for Ajay to conclude the evening. ‘So there it is, friends. We come to the close of today’s function, and it leaves me to thank our guest, Mr Menon…Thank you, sir; and principal saab…thank you, sir; and everyone else…thank you. Thank you.’

  ‘Hindu Hindu Hin-doooo! Hindu Hindu Hin-doooo!’

  ‘Hindu Hindu Hin-doooo! Hindu Hindu Hin-doooo!’

  ‘Hindu Hindu Hin-doooo! Hindu Hindu Hin-doooo! Hindu Hindu Hin-! Hindu Hindu Hin-doooo!’

  As the winner was hoisted on to a hundred shoulders and taken back to the college across the road, stunned Stephanians emerged from the hall shaking their heads.

  Ajay rushed down from the stage and waved at Aparajita, who had been joined by Akhil near one of the exits. ‘Shit, man, that was unbelievable—what a bastard, that V.D. Listen, sorry, Aps—you were the best by a long way, man.’

  ‘Thanks, AB—chalta hai yaar…Did you like it, Akhil?’

  ‘I have never in my life heard anyone speak so well about anything—ever. The shield was yours, I don’t know why…’

  Aparajita ducked through her jhola strap. ‘Leave it, guys. How about a nimbu pani, haan?’

  Ajay okayed the plan. ‘Sure. Listen, how are you planning to go back home? I take it an auto is out of the question.’

  ‘I was thinking, if it’s not too much trouble, maybe one of you could drop me…’

  ‘Yes, why not.’

  ‘Yes, why not.’

  Aparajita gave a puzzled look. Inside, she knew better. ‘Who…then?’

  ‘I can, no problem.’

  Akhil slung his arm around Ajay’s shoulder. ‘Yes alright, I have got to prepare some inorganic
notes anyway.’

  ‘But AB, don’t you have to close up the hall? I was thinking Akhil can…’

  ‘Oh. Well, in that case, you go ahead, Aks.’

  ‘Alright…’

  ‘I think we should make a move, then…Listen AB, thanks for everything. Anyway, I’ll see you at the Wed-special.’

  Akhil blushed. ‘I have invited her as a guest.’

  Ajay put his eyes back in the sockets. ‘Well, I’ll see you on Wednesday, then.’ ‘Ban-cho nay pataa li lagta hai,’ he whispered softly.

  Aparijata adjusted her jhola strap. ‘Sorry, what AB?’

  ‘No, nothing, nothing.’

  Akhil turned to Ajay. ‘See you later, AB—listen, sign the night reg for me, will you?’

  ‘Alright, alright…you lucky bastard.’

  Akhil smiled. It was the smile of the happiest man in the world.

  The Khmer-Rouge Chakra. The Tonton Macoute Baton. The Henry Kissinger Chair. The Rhodes Scholarship. The Adolf and Benito Oratory Series. The Billa and Ranga Trophy. The Stalin Kavi Sammelan. The Nirbhaya Chainsaw.

  Spot the odd one out. Which one? Rhodes? Why? Because he was rich and white? No, no, not for that, silly. We are not racists. The others were murderers, responsible for cold-blooded slaughter, rape and genocide. Cold-blooded and in the middle of cities. Town hall and all that. You really cannot compare apples and oranges. Certainly not, certainly not—especially in India where we are all white. Or white-like. Even the coconuts are white inside. That’s probably why the white racist Cecil John Rhodes made sure his racist scholarship included a few blacks from the colonies.

  Grey matter is a white matter. All else is dark matter. No, not dark chocolate. Dark matter. Brahmandam? No, damn it. Black matter. Oh, nuclear fusion. Yes. Fusion. This is not a spelling mistake.

  Why are there no dark-skinned news readers on mainstream Indian television? Why is it that scholarships and fellowships to study in the UK in the arts and social sciences rarely spill out of the Lutyens’ Bungalow Zone? And on the rare occasion that they do, why are they tied to some father’s chair or mother’s trophy? Is there a bloodline for scholarships like blood diamonds from South Africa? Add to the sloth the new business of think tanks. After all is done and accounted for and the children are settled in good white schools, time to think and recreate new self-help steps. By this time a generation has kicked in—sorry, paid back—and it is time to repeat the outrage over the chainsaw.

  All human beings are racist and class conscious. Let that be said loud and clear. Let it also be said, equally loud and clear, that across civilised democracies, education has systematically sought to level the playing field, to include the excluded—the coloured and the poor. Why are dark people called coloured? What is white if not an amalgamation of seven colours? Thunk, thunk, as think now has a bad name.

  White is not uniformly the colour of joy and fecundity. In India, it is the colour of death. Ashen. Vibhuti white. Virgin ash. Ha, how obvious life is when you close your eyes.

  Why is it a black Friday and not pink? Why do baby boys wear blue and girls pink? Where did it all start and who is perpetrating it? Oh ho, the new colour of rebellion is pink. Pink bows, pink ties, pink chair, pink commercials. Now that colour has been subsumed and submerged, time to find a new pink. Yellow?

  Civilised democracies are full of examples of how universal education has blurred if not totally wiped out the class divide on the basis of birth. Grammar has won over accent, democracy over diction. In India, a handful of people who have apportioned power to themselves through language and birth have fossilised into the worst of all worlds. Where birth had stumbled, money has helped. Beyond a certain volume everything is colourless or colourful.

  We are a series of small clubs that are mutually exclusive and deeply suspicious of each other. We hail values no one understands. We bow before gods with sparkling eyes and diamond studs. We establish a pecking order for principles that are universal but give it our own twist. We are scared that someone might find out and call our bluff so we ensure that nothing, but nothing slips out. Not even saliva, or spit. We swallow our own sins, our own fences, our own lies and deceit without realising that one day, we will be victims of the violence we refuse to see, the damage we condone and the destruction we preside over.

  See, look, try and understand. When they were being raped and mutilated, we pretended that it was not happening. We called them fascists and Naxals because we understand neither. But these are the words of the educated, the urbane, the sophisticated. What reason couldn’t explain, language did. What truth showed, lies fixed. Now that we are being raped and plundered, looted and killed in our own clubs, we pour outrage.

  So we get into the rural-rural, rural-urban, urban-urban language for survival. Because none of us has really had to fight for survival, the next meal, or the first job—we are children of privilege. Are we? Or are we children of industrially organized deprivation?

  And then natural selection happens. Life happens. New questions throw up others, blowing gaping holes in our language, life and living. Difficult to follow? Try living it, try understanding where your next meal will come from—something that over 350 million Indians fret over every day. Ten years is a lifetime for the very rich and the very poor—same to same. Just that one was born on the right side of the road while the other took a turn. Unwillingly. Error, error. Curse or karma? Where is the error when all is good and pure?

  We are truly a house of mirth. Mirth or myth? Mammals, for certain, but beyond that?

  11

  2003—On the Road

  The wellness of a nation is judged by the manner in which its people go about their morning ablutions.

  The mandarins who came up with this hypothesis were, in hindsight, prudent enough to have expunged a clause, one that called for appraisal even when the observed were on a train, thus sparing the Pataliputra Express presently lumbering its way through the vast planes of the cow belt. And so, at the break of dawn, with a damp gamchha wrapped around his considerable waist and his janehu wound about his left ear, SP Akhileshwar Kumar Chaubey pried open the toilet door, fearful of what—or who if the bolt on the inside was missing—he might discover on the other side.

  SP Chaubey sighed in relief—the cubbyhole was empty. Just as he walked in, the train picked up speed without warning, shaking and rattling uncontrollably.

  ‘Ban-cho, just when you...’ cursed Chaubey. He had to let go of everything for a moment and push the opposing walls of the lavatory with his open palms to steady himself. Steady, he thrust his toothbrush in his mouth and went down on his haunches, lodging his two feet on the thoughtfully provided tyrannosaurus-like footprints.

  For the next few minutes Chaubey had little else to do but hang his head down and stare at the gravel whizzing past under the round opening that allowed passengers to pockmark the great Indian countryside with their deposits. Ruminating on life in general, and the state of the toilet in particular, Chaubey felt foolish at having commenced on the first of the ablutions without giving a thought as to how in Sita Maiyya’s name he would be able to conclude it. Panic struck as he looked around for the omnipresent tin can. His eyes regained their sparkle as he found it, its neck tied to the spout with the help of a muscular chain.

  ‘Saaley kuttey, how am I...’ said Chaubey even as he pressed the faucet nozzle to fill the battered can up. Travesty—the chain was much too short. To make matters worse, someone was banging at the door. Chaubey ignored the pleadings, and, with the sort of gymnastic adroitness he usually reserved for his trips to the red-light districts, managed to come clean at the end of it all. As a concluding gesture, he kicked at the can in disgust—it swung around in the air like a jumpy pup on a leash and came to rest faithfully under the spout.

  The next assignment—brushing one’s teeth—was comparatively a walk in the park, except for the tricky part where Chaubey had to thump the push-button faucet for a few drops of water to rinse his mouth. He replaced his toothbrush on the rac
k afterwards very carefully, clearly one of those people who treat the toothbrush as a member of their family.

  Act three—bath. Chaubey unzipped his Reboak shaving kit and brought out a booklet of soap paper with a duotone Mumtaz all foamed up on the cover. He mulled over the slimy paperback by twiddling his thumb across the sheaf a few times as though it were a bundle of hundred rupee notes, ripping out half and saving the rest for the return journey.

  Wholly in concert with the movements of the train, down to the sideways wobble of his salt-and-pepper pot belly, Chaubey turned the shower knob clockwise, then counter-clockwise, then clockwise again—only more frantically, like he was tuning a radio. And his joy knew no bounds when the outrageously corroded showerhead ejected razor-sharp jets of water from precisely five punctures—like sun rays—out of the hundred that poxed its surface.

  Chaubey got under the spray, all the time shifting from under one jet to next, and began to lather his palms by rubbing the soap paper, sometimes with such frenzy there was a risk the whole collection might hiss up. As five streams became four, then three, and after a short while, two, Chaubey started to rush his movements pantomimically, fearful of the logical conclusion of the regression series. The two remaining jets, sure enough, turned to a trickle and then vanished, sucked up the showerhead—but not before Chaubey had completed his act. He intentionally left the shower knob as it was, active, roused by the satanic vision in his mind’s eye of the in-coming occupant, roosting meditatively, only to be poked in the face by a sudden squirt of the erratic shower. Chaubey choked delightedly at the thought and slapped his belly, producing ripples of unwanted flesh that ran back and forth. Humming and whistling, he collected his toothbrush and unwound the sacred thread from his ear, constructing a pinch and running it all along the length of the thread so as to parch it.

  Lockets, charms and knick-knacks dangling, Chaubey unlocked the toilet door and stepped out, scrubbing his head with a second gamchha, building a misty halo around it.

  Chaubey now reached his bay and hunched over to look out the barred windows. He realised they were very close to the station, given the sudden jump in slum volume and the caginess with which their train was moving. From the table-rack he picked up his baint and tiptoed to the middle berth where DSP Sharma was lying dormant and open-mouthed.