The Rat Eater

by Anand Ranganathan

  SP Chaubey paused for effect. ‘And now you come along and tell me—no no sir, it wasn’t the secretary, it was ban-cho some chhotu who ate rats and sold chai and read Agatha…kyon?’

  ‘Err…’

  ‘Kyon bhai, Bansilal? Arey, say something.’

  Bansilal would have leapt at SP Chaubey’s feet had the magazine counter not been in the way. ‘Saab, p-please forgive me for my blunder. I can only…’

  ‘And one last thing. Who else have you told about this Kalki and your Agatha and all this connection? Who else?’

  ‘No one, saab. Not even my wife.’

  ‘…Kindly, pay, attention! Coming, from, Kalka, going, to, Howrah, two, three, one, two, Kalka, via…’

  The lady had evidently returned from the toilet. SP Chaubey was also relieved. He smiled. To Bansilal it seemed a cause for anything but relief.

  ‘God promise?’

  ‘J-ji, G-Gaw-Gaw-’

  SP Chaubey couldn’t wait till tomorrow. ‘And we don’t need to tell you—or do we?’

  ‘N-no, saab, on my dead body, will I ever open my mouth about this.’

  ‘Good, Bansilal. Good…And what shall we do about your reward, bhai?’

  ‘…Chandigarh, Ambala, Cant, Junction, Kurukshetra, Junction, Karnal…’

  ‘Saab, please don’t embarrass me. I don’t know what I was thinking to get into all this. Please, I am begging you from my…’

  ‘Haan-haan, Bansilal, we forgive you. We really do. Kyon, Sharma saab?’

  ‘Ha-haah, ji, sir.’

  SP Chaubey was almost done. ‘Hmm…Now, there is one thing you can help us with, Bansi babu.’

  ‘SP saab, you just say.’

  ‘Our train back is not till tonight…So, what can we do in this Mughalsarai of yours?’

  SP Chaubey’s loaded question brought about a momentary silence, where everyone was reading everyone else’s mind. And Bansilal had read SP Chaubey’s mind perfectly. ‘S-saab, now what can a little fellow like me tell y-you, SP saab…’

  ‘…Mirzapur, Mughal, Sarai, Junction, Bhabua, Road, Sasaram, Dehri, and …’

  ‘Oh. You have understood?’

  ‘J-ji, SP saab.’

  SP Chaubey rubbed his hands. ‘Wah. Bhai Sharma, our Bansilal is a clever man, hain?’

  ‘He is, sir, he is.’

  ‘He doesn’t look like a clever man but still. Kyon, Bansi baboo.’

  ‘…Barddhaman, Junction, has, arrived, at, Mughal, Sarai, at, platform, number, two, thank you…’

  Bansilal swung open the countertop and gestured with his trembling hands. ‘Th-this way, SP saab. And DSP saab, please, you can leave the briefcase here if you like.’

  SP Chaubey blew away some imaginary dust from his nameplate. ‘Arey, Sharma, you can pick some magazines from here. I don’t know how long you might have to wait. Kyon, Bansilal, there must be a lobby or a waiting room where you are taking us?’

  ‘There is, SP saab. There always is.’

  Three suitcases, one holdall, two tiffin carriers—one with dry food and the other with sambar sadam, aloo and puri and beans curry without coconut—small bag with books, big plastic bag with newspapers and magazines, small pouch for ticket and money, coin purse, another small bag for flashlight, soap and mug, side pouch with slippers and Odomos, one plastic packet with paper napkins and Dettol and another plastic bag with spoons and forks, one flask with hot water and a water bottle. All laden on one coolie who has to carry it to platform number seventeen on the other side of the station while assuring us that we will not miss the train which is not due for the next forty-five minutes. Last heard, that is.

  Life is a railway platform.

  Now there’s zika to compete with malaria, chikungunya and dengoo. Like that only. Odomos, however, remains trustworthy. No Indian has ever checked the sell-by date on the tube flap.

  Unpredictable. These damn trains. Never on time. That was the one good thing about the nasbandhi during the Emergency. At least we could cut off the supplies. Old trains, dying trains, dirty trains, slow trains, goods trains, lost trains, different trains, diverse trains, ugly trains—we managed to get rid of all of them. Vermin. No one even noticed. In the dark and remote corners of India, all these trains were dumped and burnt. No one knows, no one will ever know. That was the best part of not having social media. Yes, there was an occasional letter to the editor which no one read. It was almost always in the language of the unwashed masses—Hindi.

  Life is a railway platform.

  Damn, today, what with Wi-Fi, things are changing. Trains are beginning to arrive on time and there are fewer and fewer vermin. Progress brings problems.

  Some trains are all first class. Vatanukool. They smell first class. From the sight to the look to the feel to the people who travel in first class. Here, there’s no question of ticketless. Even dogs and parrots have to buy tickets. The cutlery is silver, bone china, white gloves, period lighting, carpets, even in the bathrooms; windows are sealed, and no spitting is allowed. There’s a library, a pool table, and a very special five-star restaurant. You have to reserve at least six months in advance. The coupe is never available. Oh, and all windows are tinted and they have silk curtains that glide back and forth on slim rails. People travelling on this train wear nice shoes and socks even if they don’t match. Nobody can enter this train. Not even the tea boy. They have their own butler and bearer. There’s also a bonsai garden in the card room. It has very short trees—the only artificial thing on this train. Everything else is ‘ficial’.

  Life is a railway platform.

  The turtles wait to be loaded onto the next train. They are grouped in a corner, turned turtle, belly up, unable to move. That is their destiny. Their flapping feet claw the air as if beseeching the gods. Next to them in large baskets are fish—big fish, small fish, red fish, white fish. Some dead, most gasping for their last breath of life. And behind them in large wicker baskets are hens, fifty-seven to a basket, clawing, gulping, staring, dead. Like thousands of Indians awaiting justice in prisons for crimes they never committed, sins they don’t know and joys that shall never be theirs. Some inmates are as little as seven. Their crime? They were witness to a crime. Even to get someone to tell them what their absence of crime was takes a lifetime. Thank God scum dies early. There is God, there is hope. There is gold. There is hope.

  Life is a railway platform.

  Despite the shit and the dung, the pigeon droppings and lepers, beggars and tuberculosis coughs, the Mughalsarai junction is a sarai with all its possibilities and impossibilities. A crossroads, a threshold, an avenue, a beginning and an end. It is morning. Everyone is busy. Early-morning sounds of shutters opening and closing, the smell of fresh fruit and the fear of slipping on a banana peel. Morning routines in search of water, rats scurrying from behind bundles of post and on to the tracks on their way to the next platform. Many dogs, stretching, flexing, scratching in preparation for another day when they will have to grab food on the platforms before the beggars get to it.

  Life is a railway platform.

  There they run after the ticketless compartments. The hunchback and the dwarf, the man with one leg, and that other one whose hands were chopped off so he could beg better. Faceless, aimless, penniless, careless, carefree—they merge into the train like a row of ants, all in a hurry, all following some destiny, some route, nowhere and everywhere. A hospital ward on wheels, wheels on tracks, tracks on a ball, fast, faster. Life is but a queue. Buy a ticket, beggar. We are all in the same boat.

  Where are we going? Goods train, express train, fast train, superfast train, non-stop, passenger and mail train. Where do they go after they leave the platform? What happens to all the things that people carry on their heads and hands and shoulders? Do they take them all the way? Do they fall off on the way? How do you know? What do you know? Did you come back to tell a tale?

  The more we carry, the more difficult the travel will be. There’s a reason extra luggage is charged extra. The less we have, the
less there will be to leave. If we come naked, why are we afraid to go naked?

  Get real. Our life has never been on track. We have always been on the road to infinity—and we shall never meet. Like ants on a Mobius strip. Samjhey na? Always on the road.

  12

  2004—A Handful of Dust

  Fiddling and fussing with his German silver, Akhil spied through the French windows of the restaurant, hoping the taxi that had just pulled up by the million-watt portico was Aparajita’s. It wasn’t. Disappointed, he returned to arranging the forks and the knives in curious geometric patterns.

  The dinner crowd was beginning to thicken—mostly foreigners with a sprinkling of young and brash Indians asking the manager for tables overlooking the floodlit swimming pool.

  Akhil had been to the magnificent Taj Mahal hotel once before. It never failed to unsettle him. Eye-opening opulence protecting itself from blinding poverty. Just outside the hotel entrance, overlooking the waterfront, a row of imported cars. Following close behind, a row of beggars. Which part of human failure was difficult to understand?

  Akhil broke away from his thoughts. He saw a cluster of beggars recklessly chasing a Mercedes on their rectangular skateboards, lurching forward with every thrust of their melted hands, unmindful of the twin-barrelled exhaust blow-drying their leprous faces. He jerked his eyes away from that particular slice of life and moved on to the one where ragged kids were unfurling postcard necklaces before a Japanese tourist.

  A waiter passed by, clearing his throat, indicating the passing of unpaid-for time.

  Akhil slid back into his chair and glanced around the eatery, almost full now—a few black heads bobbing up and down in a sea of pink and blond. Staring down at his origami-ed napkin, Akhil felt achingly alone and unwanted. Soon, though, his morbid thoughts were interrupted by the approaching rustle of silk.

  ‘So sorry, Aks, got caught up in the traffic—worse than Delhi, I tell you,’ said Api as she dragged a chair out.

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Akhil. ‘I came in a few minutes ago myself.’

  ‘This really is ridiculous. You should have a cell phone. Why don’t you?’

  Akhil smiled. ‘Never felt the need.’

  ‘What do you mean “never felt the need”? It’s a necessity now, silly.’

  ‘Not for me. Besides, the charges are crazy. Fourteen bucks a minute.’

  ‘Arey, get one if only for the missed-call facility, na. Gosh, you really are an antique piece.’

  ‘Hah, alright, I will soon. But then, who’d call me?’

  Api ignored the loaded remark and placed a packet on the table.

  ‘Here, something for you,’ she said gathering her sari and sitting down.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t have much time. Picked it from one of the emporiums.’

  ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have!’ cried Akhil mockingly as he removed the wrapping. ‘Nice,’ he added, looking at the dagger with an intricate horse-head grip. ‘I don’t know what to say. Could be of some use, I suppose.’

  ‘The dagger isn’t the gift.’

  Akhil looked up and smiled. ‘I’d figured as much. I last used a dagger in…wow. And what do we have here? Is this…’

  Api smiled. ‘Nothing much has changed—at least in that part of Delhi, it hasn’t.’

  ‘Nothing much…’ said Akhil, flattening the wrapping paper out a few times with his palm.

  It was a map—but not just an ordinary map.

  The hum of being in love makes lovers do silly things. Like drawing a detailed map of places they visited, the restaurants where they held hands, the auto rides they took in the pouring rain, the films they watched in damp theatres with bedbug-infested armrests, the bus rides, the long walks, the Majnu ka Tilas, the Lodhi Gardens, the Ridge, the train stations, the bus stands. The city, its landmarks, its roads, monuments, are redrawn, re-charted, rewritten, with new names, new thrills, new memories. And soon, all that remains of that love is a map.

  ‘Nothing much…’ said Api.

  Their gaze lingered. Akhil reached for his shirt pocket.

  ‘What has changed is this country...’ he said, scribbling on the map, and went on, ‘...what has changed, Api, are its people, its streets. They need to be renamed.’

  Api tilted her head to try and make sense of Akhil’s doodling. ‘Sorry, is that…what are you doing?’

  ‘When everything has changed, why spare the roads? They should be named after our present heroes, not the past ones. The scamsters, the politicians, the rioters, the corrupt—shouldn’t we remember their names every time we take a road or visit a monument? Or have they disappeared from our collective consciousness already? Or, as I recall how you put it once—the after pages of our history books—and then you turn off the night lamp…’

  ‘Elephants can remember,’ smiled Api. But her smile was more out of irritation.

  ‘Lovely novel, that.’

  ‘Yes, alright, philosopher saab. Now can I get something to drink round here?’

  Akhil put the map away. ‘Of course. And where the hell is your husband?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said Api. ‘At the last minute he told me to carry on. Said he’ll come straight here.’

  ‘How a fellow like AB can be so serious about work is what keeps me awake at night,’ grinned Akhil.

  ‘He has gone mad lately—wants to get to the top in super-quick time…’

  ‘Dangerous,’ cut in Akhil.

  ‘I asked him what he’d do once he was at the top and he said sleep.’

  ‘Well, he certainly has changed since college,’ said Akhil, ‘Never did a stroke of work back then—but then again, who did?’

  ‘Hah,’ agreed Api.

  Silence followed.

  ‘Not this time,’ thought Akhil and hurried on resolutely. ‘I never asked you about…’

  ‘A lot of things,’ broke in Api.

  ‘Hah, yes,’ said Akhil smiling. ‘I never—you never spoke about your plans for a…’

  Api knew what was coming. ‘What, a family?’ she said, as if dismissing the suggestion. ‘With him? Ha ha. No, but seriously, we haven’t found the time.’

  ‘What, fifteen years isn’t enough time?’ said Akhil, and then quickly added, ‘Sorry—none of my business.’

  Api was peeved by this last comment but tried her best to hide it. ‘Well, how can you have kids with a man who comes for his shaadi in a lal-batti,’ she joked, hoping to play the topic off.

  It worked.

  ‘Complete with all sirens blaring?’ asked Akhil.

  ‘Ya—and then bang, bang,’ said Api, laughing.

  ‘What? He had constables firing in the air? Seriously, Aps…’

  ‘No, silly, those were the car doors. Then he climbed out—bare-chested except for the white thread. And a white dhoti, of course.’

  ‘And I suppose with him all those baskets of mithais and dry fruits…’

  ‘Not to mention ninety decked-up relatives, seven lal-battis, three buses…’

  The bowed head of a waiter came between them. ‘Er, would you like to order now, sir?’

  ‘Maybe after a few minutes,’ said Akhil looking up. ‘We are expecting someone. Some water perhaps…’

  ‘Mineral or regular, sir?’

  ‘What’s the difference? In the price, I mean.’

  ‘Regular is complimentary and mineral is ninety rupees a bottle, sir.’

  ‘Regular, then.’

  The waiter nodded and withdrew.

  Akhil resumed the conversation. ‘Haan, where were we? Lal-battis, Ambassadors…’

  ‘What a tamasha. And at my end, my uncle and his henchmen—sweat-dripping, pot-bellied, white-threaded—playing nadaswaram. Can make you deaf at the best of times.’

  ‘And what were you doing all this while? Rubbing off all that haldi and chandan, I guess.’

  ‘Yes, something like that. Anyway, Ajay finally took off his sunglasses…’

  ‘The bastard came wearing s
unglasses? A white thread, a dhoti and sunglasses.’

  ‘I really thought I was being married off to Rajinikanth.’

  ‘“Married off” being the operative phrase.’

  Their eyes met in the ensuing pause. Akhil turned his head to the side and continued. ‘Sorry…now where is this Rajinikanth of yours, damn it.’

  ‘Ah. Speak of the devil…’

  ‘Say devils. He’s brought company.’

  Api glanced at the three men standing at the restaurant entrance. ‘I hope he is not asking them to join us…’

  Ajay, too, had spotted Akhil and Api. He smiled and waved at them. Then he swung round to address his fleet.

  ‘Arey suno, Kharbanda. Can you and Sharma stay put here? Feel free to order a coffee or some soup. They give you free breadsticks along with it—unlimited.’

  SP Kharbanda was touched. ‘Why, thank you, sir—it’s just too hot and humid outside.’

  ‘Yes yes—and I appreciate you two staying back. We might have to rush over to the HQ in an hour’s time—wind up the paperwork, you know?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Please don’t worry on our account. These look like comfortable seats…’

  Ajay feigned a look of regret and said, ‘I would have loved to invite you over at the table, but…’

  ‘Arey sir, you are embarrassing us. Moreover, soup and bread would any day be better than what lies in wait for us at home. No, Sharma?’

  ‘Very true, sir. My wife has gone to her maika and the bai—she only knows baingan ka…’

  ‘Achha achaa, ban-cho, DIG saab is not interested in what your bai can…’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Ajay cleared his throat in irritation. ‘Well, anyway. Kharbanda, Sharma, you’ll be fine here?’

  ‘Absolutely, sir, you go right ahead; we’ll wait here.’

  Ajay started to walk away. ‘As you wish. Take care then…’

  SP Kharbanda leaned on his toes and called after him. ‘Er, enjoy yourself, sir.’

  The two officers flung their baints and caps on the nearby sofa and wiped part of the prodigious sweat from their faces and necks. They folded their handkerchiefs neatly and stuffed them down their pant pockets. Not quite knowing what to do next, they stood contemplating whether the horse in the painting on the wall opposite was a goat. Certain that it was a goat—horses don’t balance their forelegs on tree trunks and munch foliage.