by Saurav Jha
The half sacking of the prophecy occurred in the sixteenth century, and is arguably the most tragic. An Afghan chief by the name of Amir Ali obtained Rawal Lunakaran’s permission to let his wives visit the famous queens of Jaisalmer. But it was a ruse. Instead of Afghan queens arriving in the retinue of palanquins, there were hundreds of armed warriors. This took the guards of the fort entirely by surprise, and a skirmish broke out. When it seemed to the Rawal that he was fighting a losing battle, he chose to kill the women with his own hands as there was no time to arrange a funeral pyre. In an instance of extreme tragic irony, immediately after the deed was done, reinforcements arrived, thus snatching the men from the jaws of death, and Amir Ali was defeated. This was the half jauhar of the prophecy.
And that is how Jaisalmer was sacked two-and-a-half times, and thousands of women embraced terrible deaths voluntarily.
Yam’s Story or How to Sell Reproductions
of Old Masters
I will tell you a story from our life. You have been asking, Devapriya, how Tally and I met? This is how. After my army service was over, I drifted for a while. I did some manual labour, saved a little money. But not enough to get away and travel, like I am doing now. Then a friend told me about this agency that was looking to hire new people for a gig in western Europe. I liked the idea of being able to travel in Europe. My friend had worked there. Apparently, the job was very simple. He did not give me too many details. I went for the interview, it did seem reasonably simple and I joined up. The company had one branch in Berlin and one in Dublin.
Now let me tell you what the job was.
Paintings of old masters – Breughel, Botticelli, Titian, da Vinci, etc., were shipped in bulk from China very cheaply. Painters in China, art college graduates as well as talented street artists would make these oil paintings on standard-sized canvases. Our job was to read up on art so we could talk about it knowledgeably. We then walked around the city, one or two canvases slung to our backs. We went door-to-door and told people we were poor artists from Israel (it was important we highlighted the Israel/Jewish bit) and had come to study at the local art college. Things are so expensive that we could not make ends meet; so we were trying to sell some paintings. Would they at least take a look at our work? Even if they did not buy anything, we would not mind. Sometimes just talking about art is enough for us. One canvas is for 100 euros. After all, I am an artist. I am not selling a poster or something mass market.
Every time we made a sale, out of 100 euros, we kept 70 euros and gave 30 euros to the company. Business was not bad. We grew into our artist lives, added many details. In Berlin, you know, in most households, we were invited inside and then apologized to. On behalf of the family, the city, the country. They apologized for what had been done to us.
After a while, this job got to us and we quit. But apparently the company is still in business. This is the story of how a globalized chain can work efficiently, once it identifies pressure points in people. Right?
Tally’s Story or How the Courtesan
Made the King Bow
I’ll tell you this lovely little story I heard in Jaisalmer. We had a nice guide. Once, I asked him, ‘Why is India so dirty?’ He said, ‘Oh, very simple.’ (This guy said ‘very simple’ a lot, as though all questions put to him were from an examination paper.) ‘In the past, people used to eat on plantain leaves and drink in mud glasses. They would throw these away, and no problem. But now, plastic plastic plastic everywhere. Not bio-degradable like leaves and mud so you see so much rubbish.’ Anyway, this is just an aside, not my main story.
So, opposite Gadi Sagar, there is a beautiful arch, right? You must have seen it today. It was built by a famous courtesan of the city. When she first planned to have it constructed, the king refused permission, saying that he would have to bow his head under the arch to go to the tank and this would not look good since she was but a courtesan. When the king was away, the courtesan had the arch constructed anyway, and had a statue of Krishna installed on top so that the king could not tear it down. This is the true story of ‘Tilon ka Pol’, and the arch is still there for people to admire.
D’s Story or How to Conquer a Fear
of the Forest
Once there was a poor little boy who lived with his mother in a tiny house by a forest. The father had died, and mother and son had no one but each other. The mother worked all day as a maid in people’s houses to make ends meet. She had to leave home at dawn, before school time, so the little boy would have to find his own way. Now that he was six years old, he was supposed to go to the main paathshaala in the village on the other side of the forest. And though in the afternoon his mother would pick him up from school and walk back with him, early in the morning he would have to cross the forest on his own. It was a harrowing experience. The forest, thick with undergrowth after the rains, was dark and gloomy even when it was a bright sunny day. Strange sounds assailed him from all sides: crickets whistling all day long, mad unfamiliar birds shrieking, the cry of monkeys and the silent roar of dangerous animals he could hear in his head. Even the waterfall was scary. It seemed to rush down at great speed and call out to him like a siren. He screwed his eyes shut to conquer his fears and then banged into trees. Only he knew how his heart pounded heavily as his footsteps creaked on twigs, and the sounds of shadows chased him from all sides. Every evening, the boy would beg his mother to not let him go to school alone. The poor single mother had greater worries than imaginary fears. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ she kept telling him. But after ten days in a row, when the boy cried bitterly that he was so afraid he could never cross the forest alone, she gave in. She told him, ‘Okay, tomorrow, when you are in the forest and you feel afraid, call Madhusudan Dada.’
‘Who is Madhusudan Dada, Ma?’ the boy wiped his eyes and asked.
‘Oh, he’s a very kind man. He is a friend to those who need him. Call him and he’ll come.’
Silently, the mother wiped her eyes and cursed that husband of hers for having died and left her alone, so needy. And the boy – oof, the boy – but at that thought she bit her tongue and stopped herself.
The little boy, however, reached the forest skipping the next day. Who knew in so many years that he had a relative? A kind friendly relative?
But he didn’t call the man immediately, of course not. Now that he knew he had someone, he did not cheat. It was only when he encountered one of those cold spots in the forest, when the blood in his veins seemed to cool rapidly and an icy wind blew in from nowhere, did he close his eyes and call out loudly, ‘Madhusudan Dada, I am not cheating. I am really afraid. Please, please come. I am alone.’
Madhusudan, of course, was none other than Lord Krishna. The slayer of the demon Madhu – Madhusudana. And one of the things about Krishna is, if someone calls out with such faith in him, Krishna must come.
A warm hand held the little boy’s palm. But the little boy was not afraid. His eyes were shut, he ought to have started and jumped, but somehow he knew his cousin had arrived. Every morning, from that day, Madhusudan Dada would traverse the forest path with him. They would chat, they would laugh. Sometimes the little boy would hope that Madhusudan Dada would accompany him all the way to school, but that never happened. At the edge of the forest, Madhusudan Dada took his leave.
Every evening, while walking back together, the boy would regale his mother with stories of Madhusudan Dada. If she was worried about his new imaginary friend, she did not show it. At least he was happy.
Seasons turned. Autumn became winter when the animals slept, and then, soon, spring was in the air. Over the months, the boy had learnt many lessons. He had become the keeper of forest secrets and lore. The forest was now his home. Every leaf, every flower was familiar to him. Madhusudan Dada had taught him to communicate with the animals and birds and trees. He understood what power was hidden in the waterfall’s rush and rumble that smoothened the pebbles on its sandy bed until they
gleamed like precious stones. The boy had forgotten fear.
On the day of Basant Panchami, the schoolmasters planned a festive gathering. Every boy in his class of twenty was to bring something from home to contribute to the feast. Some would bring fine rice, some would bring specially flavoured dal, the rich boys had volunteered to bring enough ghee to cook for everyone, and vegetables too.
Once again, the little boy and his mother were in a quandary. It was the end of the month and she had no money to spare for such frivolities. She cursed that absent husband of hers silently, and when the boy whined about his prestige in class, she told him in her anger to ask his Madhusudan Dada.
Fortunately, there were still two days to the grand affair. When the boy told Madhusudan Dada about the festivities – and the food he had to take – Madhusudan Dada paused for a minute. Then he smiled and said, ‘Okay, I’ll manage something tomorrow. Don’t worry.’ That day, while walking, both were pensive. The little boy seemed to feel they were coming to the end of this camaraderie; he felt angry that his mother had made him complicate this perfect friendship with a stupid demand. Madhusudan Dada too was unusually quiet. But then they had traversed every inch of the woods together – there was nothing new to say.
The next day, the day of Basant Panchami, Madhusudan Dada was late for the first time. The boy sat by the waterfall, waiting patiently. The animals came out of their corners and waited with him. The birds were quiet. Finally, almost when the boy was about to give up hope, Madhusudan Dada arrived. The boy’s face lit up. ‘Oh no,’ Madhusudan Dada said, ‘I wasn’t going to let you down. And yes, I’ve got your thing.’ They started walking together, footsteps in tandem. ‘You aren’t afraid of the forest any more, right?’
The boy looked at Madhusudan Dada in consternation. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I think you’ve grown a little older now. You can understand what the sounds of the forest mean – when the earth is hungry, when the animals are scared, when the trees at the outer reaches of the forest are afraid that cruel people will come and uproot them from their homes.’ They had reached the edge of the forest. Madhusudan Dada handed him a little mud container, a tiny thing, filled with sweetened curd. The boy’s heart sank. This little thing? He would be laughed at for sure. He wanted to run away home immediately. He felt terribly embarrassed that Madhusudan Dada had even thought of bringing this. Oh God, this meant Madhusudan Dada was just as poor as them.
But Madhusudan Dada was looking hard at him. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘This will be enough. And always remember, I am with you even if you can’t see me.’
In school, the cruel children began to point and chuckle the moment they saw the boy entering with his modest mud container. The teachers too had no kind words for him. After they had eaten to their fill, they jeered at him and a teacher said nastily, ‘So every boy brought enough food for everyone, but this cheapskate could only bring enough for one person. Have it yourself then!’ He upturned the entire sweetened curd on the boy’s banana leaf.
After he lifted the mud container and made to throw it away, he saw it was full. In a state of shock, he upturned it on the next plantain leaf – and this time, even the others saw – when he lifted it up, it was full again.
There was great cacophony. ‘Who has given you this? Who has given you this?’ the masters cried out, and the students scattered in fear. The teacher caught him by his neck and began to scream about black magic and tantra. Suddenly, there was a flash of light and in one clear instant, everybody saw Madhusudan Dada in his royal regalia, the chakra in his hand. The master fell to his feet.
The boy ran out of the school and into the forest. All day he sat by the waterfall. Silent tears ran down his cheeks. One by one, the animals came near him and sat around his feet. When evening began to creep in, he wiped his face and began to walk back home. He knew now who his friend was. He also knew he would never be able to call Madhusudan Dada with the sort of faith he had six months ago – the faith of a child afraid of the dark forest. He had grown up.
This is the story of Madhusudan Dada and the boy. I do not know the source – perhaps it was handed down by my grandmother. My mother would tell me this story, often, because, as a child I was fearful of everything and everybody. I cried in the school bus every day, the moment my house vanished from its view. I cried in school where everything was strange and extremely difficult for me, the studies, the friendships, the large rooms in the hundred-year-old buildings which seemed full of cold spots and ghosts. I know this is not the sort of story you wanted, Yam, but somehow it is this story that you get. In India we say about food that every grain has the eater’s name on it; I think it is true of the stories we hear as well.
Six:
How to Survive Madna
Dhrubo exhaled richly out of the window, and said, ‘I’ve a feeling, August, you’re going to get hazaar fucked in Madna.’ Agastya had just joined the Indian Administrative Service and was going for a year’s training in district administration to a small district town called Madna.
…
… Menon picked up his papers from the table. ‘Have you read this?’ He handed Agastya a large green book, Ruth Prawer Jhabvala’s Heat and Dust. ‘I borrowed it from the Collectorate Library because I was told it was about an Assistant Collector’s life in the British days. But it’s not really about that.’ Agastya flipped the pages. Many passages were underlined; all of them seemed to be about an Assistant Collector touring in the early morning to avoid the title. Comments in red ballpoint in the margin: ‘Not necessary these days to wear sola topee. Relic of the raj. The bureaucracy to be Indianized,’ and ‘Difficult question. An officer’s wife should mix with others, but without jeopardizing the dignity of office.’
‘Someone’s been scribbling in the book,’ said Agastya.
‘Yes, I thought I should put down what I feel strongly about so other readers have at least a choice of opinion. Otherwise, they might think that even now this is all that goes on in an Indian district.’
—Upamanyu Chatterjee, English August
25
Can I go to the German Bakery?
What?
It’s just across the road. There. Beyond the cows crossing. You can see it, right? I’ll just rush there and be back in two.
The bus is going to leave any minute now.
Uff. It’s the German Bakery! I must go there once. You can ask the bus to wait.
You know it doesn’t work that way. What if the driver doesn’t understand my Hindi? We’ll be in a pickle. The rucksacks are locked up so I can’t even get down from the bus. Why don’t you wait a bit? We can buy cake in Barmer. I bet there’s a fancy bakery there. You might even get Dundee cake.
Dundee cake?
Well, yes, there’s the whole Cairn Energy angle. The Scots are all over Barmer.
26
If you must reach Barmer on a winter noon, you will see, on the way from Jaisalmer, slim dry trees and dark scrub on either side, the sere vegetation cleanly outlined against the sky.
The bus will stop several times en route. Whenever a melee of sheep, goats, buffaloes and donkeys take over the road, you can only shut your eyes and try to recall a map. Where is Barmer? And then you remember seeing it on that large map of Rajasthan in Bikaner House, a tiny dot very close to the border.
Barmer doesn’t show up on a regular India map anyway; it’s neither large enough, nor special enough. The start-stop-start-stop bus makes you sleepy. You haven’t had any breakfast; you are annoyed because you have been cheated out of your desert safari (and your cake). You look out of the window the whole way, and the cold makes your nose sore. You see large windmills on the horizon, gigantic contraptions of steel, and then you hear a brief lecture on base-load generation from your co-traveller, who you thought was fast asleep. You spot a shop called ‘New Kheteshwar Fancy Store And Mobile Centre’ and you get this overpowering urge to stop
the bus and get down and buy a keepsake from there; butterfly hairclips, a little tin of face cream. A large party of local men sit outside, in chairs and khatiyas, drinking tea. (New Kheteshwar also advertises tea, coffee, tiffin and sweets made of desi ghee and Bengali mawa.) All the men seem to be in their forties; most favour white turbans, though one or two wear bright yellow and dull red ones; a jaunty sort wears a blue skullcap; there is only one young chap without headgear but his leopard-print earmuffs are arresting. You get a fleeting impulse to do something to shock them – but it passes. You are, in general, a respectful sort.
Past Kheteshwar, you suddenly observe the sand turning pale gold, endless patterns running through it. Perhaps you could rent a whitewashed little room somewhere nearby, you begin to think, one side opening on the bazaar, the other opening on to the sky and the fine gold sand. You could write. He could write. You would have nothing in the whitewashed room but the iron frame of a bed and one writing table each.
And then you see the thin women by the road. Buying robust vegetables with their husbands, accompanying schoolchildren with pigtails, carrying five pots of water on their heads; all of this with their faces carefully covered with the ends of saris or dupattas or hijabs. In one sweep you move the whitewashed room with the piercing sky in the window to the outskirts of Pushkar. After all, Pushkar also has bookstores. And that ravioli place. Then you give up the idea altogether. Too precious.
At one point, you start when he suddenly gives a low growl of joy next to you and snatches the camera from your hand. You hadn’t even realized he was awake. He rushes to the front of the bus where there is a flower-filled altar and returns after a few minutes. You are about to say something cutting about his drooling on your sweater when you notice the thing on the road he must have seen.
