Fear and other stories 9780670096435

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PRAISE FOR VULTURES ‘To read Dalpat Chauhan’s 2000 novel, Gidh, is to sweat in the blazing sun that presides over scorched scrublands and lavish fields; to feel the blows of an upper-caste landowner’s staff raining down on a Dalit suspected of having broken the rules that constrain his hopes and dreams. Chauhan, a seminal figure in the history of Gujarati Dalit literature, raised a dissenting subaltern voice in a sphere traditionally dominated by elite groups. His novels, poems and plays are animated by the friction between a genteel savarna Gujarati and the more earthy registers of the language, as spoken by rural Dalit communities. He articulates the anguish of the labouring castes, long stigmatized by a hierarchical system that denies their humanity. In Gidh, now translated as Vultures, Chauhan revisited the brutal murder of a young Dalit by Rajput landowners in the 1960s, placing under a microscope the tense, finely calibrated relationships among various caste groups in a Gujarat village during an epoch of transition. Vultures is unflinching in its portrayal of the custom-sanctified violence around which Indian society is structured. Through Hemang Ashwinkumar’s translation— which is closely attentive to cultural, political and linguistic nuances—a new readership will recognize how urgently relevant Vultures remains, two decades after it was first published. Vultures resonates with memories of suffering, but it also proclaims the survivor’s resilient desire to bear witness against injustice’—Ranjit Hoskote, Indian poet, art critic, cultural theorist and independent curator ‘Dalpat Chauhan reminds us of the ongoing debt society owes those whose very beings are confiscated—their touch stigmatized and their labour rendered disposable, available for the taking. The historical memory of debt bondage and caste labour haunts our protagonist, who experiences the proscriptions on touch and the fugitive possibilities of inter-caste desire as two sides of caste’s schizoid existence. The violence of atrocity, of desire disciplined by death, frames this extraordinary Gujarati novel filled with rich descriptions of everyday life, violent intimacies, the raw physicality of desire and destitution and the incendiary power of Dalit anger and outrage. Hemang Ashwinkumar’s translation reminds us that the rich archives of Dalit writing in regional languages bear witness to literature’s

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capacity to bring our (caste) ethics and politics to crisis even as it invites us to annihilate caste and remake social life’—Anupama Rao, Director, Institute for Comparative Literature and Society (Columbia) ‘This novel written by a Gujarati Dalit tells us the story of a Dalit labourer who in spite of brutal upper-caste oppression and suppression educates himself but has his life cut short in a heinous murder. Through this story, the original Gujarati Dalit writer and his translator successfully tell the world outside Gujarat the kind of caste practices that existed there. Gujarat remains a very casteist and violent anti-Dalit society. The 2016 Una Dalit logging revealed that narrative. Yet not much has been written about its culture and practices in English. This novel mirrors its history of horrors and becomes an instrument of its reform. I hope it does well in the market’—Kancha Ilaiah Shepherd, Indian political theorist and Dalit rights activist ‘I had tears in my eyes long after I closed the book . . . Holds a mirror to the collective conscience of society which has allowed caste hierarchy and cast supremacy to reign supreme and heap atrocities over the untouchables’—Rachna Chhabria, Deccan Chronicle ‘Vultures is a powerful novel about the evils of caste patriarchy and bonded labour in rural India’—Chintan Girish Modi, New Indian Express ‘Chauhan paints a compelling picture at every juncture’—Karthik Keramalu, Open ‘Dalpat Chauhan is a well-established Dalit writer whose energetic prose is filled with nuance that elevates his writing to literary iconoclasm. Hemang Ashwinkumar’s translation of Vultures is vivid and stark, leaving a sour taste in the mouth, courtesy of ingenious descriptions of carrion and fields that took me right back to my father’s native village . . . Vultures tells a story that is as shamefully human as it is demonic, as valiant as it is pitiful’— Shalvi Jaxay Shah, Words Without Borders

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HAMISH HAMILTON USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia New Zealand | India | South Africa | China Hamish Hamilton is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com Published by Penguin Random House India Pvt. Ltd 4th Floor, Capital Tower 1, MG Road, Gurugram 122 002, Haryana, India

First published in Hamish Hamilton by Penguin Random House India 2023 Copyright © Dalpat Chauhan 2002, 2009, 2013, 2019 Translation copyright © Hemang Ashwinkumar 2023 All rights reserved 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ISBN 9780670096435 For sale in the Indian Subcontinent only Typeset in Sabon by Manipal Technologies Limited, Manipal Printed at

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. www.penguin.co.in

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Dedicated to all those who are selflessly fighting the battles for rights

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Contents

Introductionxi Home1 The Invasion

20

Touch of Snake

40

Fear57 Buffaloed72 The Payback

90

The Third Eye

100

Cold Blood

118

Darbar130 The Visiting Card

152

If Only This Truck Conked Out

165

Translator’s Acknowledgements177 Notes181 References187

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Introduction Hemang Ashwinkumar

We write because we would like to be the witnesses of our history. —Dalpat Chauhan

A

t the peak of the most macabre second coming of the pandemic, which had changed the modes and methods of human interaction not only in public but even in private spheres, the Gandhian rhetorical question ‘Has not a just Nemesis overtaken us for the crime of untouchability?’(1921) went viral, infecting the most cautiously sanitized physical and digital spaces of communication, from drawing rooms to social media walls, like never before. Though Gandhi’s proclamation, made in the context of the horrors of Dyerism and O’Dwyerism in Punjab, by his own admission, was instinctive in nature, just as his similar attribution of earthquakes, floods and droughts at other times were, the grudging admissions made during the second wave were xi

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probably not at all so. They owed, on the other hand, their origins to the experiential rather than the instinctive, to the physical rather than the metaphysical, to the tangible rather than the incorporeal, for such attributive, selfinculpating logic wasn’t seen to have been employed by the caste society any time in past to explain other disasters and calamities of far lethal proportions. The pandemic, it seemed, had changed something irrevocably; to put it brutally, by making an ‘untouchable’ out of every human being, the pandemic had spread and legitimized the ‘tortuous semantics of tactility’ across the length and breadth of hierarchical caste order and directed the fear of death hidden in the act of ‘touch and recoil’ from the body of the ‘other’ to the self (Geetha, 2009: 97). In the throes of ‘social distancing’—a deplorable term that had been so unproblematically normalized as a defensive mechanism against the disease—every human body was forced to negotiate untouchability as ‘an experience of wounding, of wilful hurt, through which the outcaste body becomes a stranger to itself and is ever ready to fall off the edge, give into anomie and fragmentation’ (Ibid, 2009: 98). Coronavirus, quite unlike the caste virus, had universalized, what Judith Butler called in a different context human precarity, by embedding the ontological sense of pollution and impurity—reserved for a Dalit body earlier—at the heart of savarna self and triggered a most humiliating crisis, comparable only to the racial humiliation faced by the Indian elite at the hands of British colonizers. As the dance of death all around spelled the endgame of the most powerful species on earth, my mind was in a whirl speculating if the ‘lived

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experience’ of untouchability would enhance the ‘logic of space’ that produced subjective upper-caste experience and even ideologically restructure it to affirm equality, justice and dignity for all (Guru, 2012: 72). Though I was keenly aware of the epistemic violence endemic to a social imagination1 that conflated a dispensable Dalit body with epidemics in nineteenth-century Gujarat, I still wondered whether the new phenomenology of touch would inaugurate alternative ontological possibilities. Armed with the enlightenment of lived experience, would a society be able to confront the caste virus, consistently gnawing at the roots of civilization, and reclaim the quintessential humanity of the oppressed and the oppressor? Nothing could be farther from the truth and, certainly, nobody could have been naiver in comprehending the inherently vile and insidiously shapeshifting dynamics of caste animosity in India for, as the book No Lockdown on Caste Atrocities (2020) so disturbingly documented, the gruesome violence against Dalits continued unabated for crimes as flimsy as being thirsty, touching a motorcycle and taking a midday leave, if not for seeking love, land or justice. Later, with the advent of viral vector vaccines, the hope for newer, egalitarian ontologies—a booster against the virus of deep-rooted caste prejudice—died an unnatural death, leaving in its wake lasting immunity to our drawing rooms and dinner tables against a reinfection by caste virus. By dint of its enormous capacity for mutation, replication and camouflage, caste had survived—among other historical milestones like modernity, heteropatriarchy, racist imperialism and

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extractive capitalism—even the pandemic; it had persisted despite all our fervent, modern, secular fantasies of denial or, perhaps, on account of it. The denial, in this instance, had opened, what Lyotard (1990) calls a ‘space of forgetting’, which had edited out the transient experience of pandemic-borne untouchability from the coherent narrative of caste, so cautiously and conscientiously constructed out of stories of the casteless character of progress and modernization. As I was trying to grasp how a space of forgetting—a wilful refusal to register experience—had shaped the narrative structure of savarna sociocultural identity, I, almost reflexively, became conscious of Dalpat Chauhan’s insightful article, ‘The Headload of Snakes: A Burden of Dalits?’, on a textbook controversy that had briefly rocked the literary-academic world in Gujarat. In 2008, the simmering ire and angst of Dalits against the insulting and dehumanizing pejoratives, historically used to identify and address Dalits, exploded into a major agitation when the Times of India reported the illegality of the inclusion of Dher na Dher Bhangi (The Lowest of the Low, the Bhan . . .) (1935), a play from Umashankar Joshi’s collection of plays titled Saap na Bhaara (A Headload of Snakes), in the syllabus of undergraduate programme in Gujarati literature offered by North Gujarat University. Dhe . . . is a casteist slur, originally used for a person of the weaver community but later extended to all Dalit castes in Gujarat to suggest the polluting work of dragging and stripping carcasses, their caste-based occupation. Bhan . . ., again a vitriolic pejorative, refers to a community at the lowest rung of the Dalit caste ladder, involved in sanitation work.

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Expectedly and ironically, the agitators burnt the copies of the disputed play, which constructed a brilliant, all-out assault on the canker of caste system; not only did it mock the hypocrisy and caste prejudice of Brahmins, but it also critiqued the internal caste hierarchy amongst Dalits. However, the objection of the aggrieved related to the use of slurs in the play, which subjected Dalit students in classroom spaces to anguish and humiliation in direct as well as oblique ways. In the wake of the controversy, the play, which had been in the syllabus for three years, was removed at the speed of lightning in a calculated act of appeasement and an astute sidestepping of the real issue. The merit of the agitators’ argument notwithstanding, Chauhan underscored the silence of academia, statefunded literary institutions and intellectuals on the episode to highlight the larger issues of persistence of caste and the collusive refusal of the mainstream society to create a critical discourse around it; it was as if the onus of engaging with caste rested, like the headload of snakes, only on the heads of Dalit. The typical savarna syndrome—a form of Lyotardian deep forgetting—is a dangerous metanarrative constructed in the absence and at the expense of Dalit experience and contextuality, both of which are crucial to the formulation of a counternarrative and alternative identity. Understandably, in order to recover the possibilities of truth and justice in human societies, the act of deep forgetting has to be remedied by letting ‘the other’ tell their story; a story that not only acknowledges the alterity of experience but also deploys the transformative power of the sensory that reconstitutes the aesthetic and

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ethic of perception (Lyotard, 1990; Szyszkowska, 2016). Reading Chauhan’s rich oeuvre, I realized that the fear of death associated with touch wasn’t the only emotion, an accidental and transient transmigration, which could have undermined the canker of caste animosity. There existed a whole uncharted cartography of emotions, a vibrant sensorium of Dalit social and alternative histories and cosmologies that needed to be transferred to the savarna experiential universe before one even began to think about shaking the totalizing, all-eclipsing, carnivorous tree of caste with its roots digging deep in our chests. Lyotard’s ‘space of forgetting’—the interstitial space between experience and representation, it dawned on me, was exactly the space translation negotiated; the proverbial ‘third space’, which exclusively unfolded in the act of translation, could be deployed profitably for curating vulture’s memory, inscribing difference and practising an enabling ethic of listening to the unheard, seeing the unseen and remembering the forgotten. The present project is a small, well-meaning effort in that direction, undertaken with the hope that the language-mediated representations of affective conditions, lived experiences and painful histories shared by historically silenced and forgotten groups will have their consciousness-transforming epiphanies for readers. The book, concomitantly, seeks to make an intervention in the arena of calculated apathy and conspiracy of silence surrounding caste in India and, thus, pinpoints the roots and routes the virus has taken to assume its current vicious form and fury.

***

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To say that historically Dalit literature in Gujarati had a belated beginning as compared to its flamboyant start in Marathi is to be innocent of the arbitrariness at the core of all historiographies and discursive ways in which a category like Dalit literature is conceptualized. While Dalit writers like Sharankumar Limbale have elaborately contested the upper-caste assumptions of literariness and poetics that govern the definition of literature, it was B.M. Puttaiah, who, in his seminal essay ‘What is Dalit Literature?’ foregrounded an epistemic break from such stock definitions and recognized as Dalit literature all that went into consolidating the Dalit movement in Karnataka, ranging from wall graffiti, banners, pamphlets, press releases, magazine/newspaper articles, protest songs, inspiring speeches, jatra, protest marches, slogans, and so on (Satyanarayana and Susie, 2013: 9). Puttaiah created a radical theoretical space for launching the discourse of Dalit literature by implying that the unique textuality of Dalit enunciation could be grasped only in the context of Dalit politics that revolves around the formation and projection of distinctive community identities and alternative sociopolitical and cultural discourses. In the context of Gujarati, two years before the first Dalit Literature Conference (1958), which broadly framed Dalit literature as one that depicted Dalit life and aspirations, the Dalit mill workers of Ahmedabad had published poems commemorating Dr Ambedkar in 175 pamphlets; later, Rameshchandra Parmar, the pioneer of Gujarat Dalit Panther2 (1974), compiled a selection from these pamphlets and published it in a collection

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titled Anjalee (1987). Though the poems were mostly hagiographical in nature, they were already proclaiming the arrival of a new poetics and politics, challenging the savarna notions of literariness and life that had for long remained the mainstay and monopoly of Dalit literary culture. Not only did they foreground a narrative of a nation based on rights, equality and justice, they also fashioned an alternative textuality by inflecting it with the poetics of orality; for example, superscripting the poems with a lead on the tune they were meant to be sung in (Jadeja, 2015). Following Puttiah’s line of thought, the roots of Gujarati Dalit literature can be traced further back to April 1930—a year before Ambedkar was shown black flags by a handful of Dalit youths at the Ahmedabad railway station upon his first visit to the city, when Gujarati’s first Ambedkarite Dalit monthly, Navyuvak, was founded.3 The cover of its inaugural issue, titled ‘Tree of Fall’, depicted a sinuous, angry Dalit youth heaving a large axe at the root of a tree branching out into the evils of rituals, slavery, child marriage, illiteracy, addiction, and so on, and symbolically etched the monthly’s manifesto. Though it folded in a couple of years due to the untimely demise of its editor, Navyuvak had gained enormous popularity and succeeded in awakening Dalit consciousness in its readers. The point is, it is impossible to disentangle the coiled double helix of Dalit literature and Dalit activism for, as a cultural practice, Dalit literature traces its raison d’être to the social and political concerns of Dalit movements as much as it does to alternative aesthetics and discursivity.

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Naturally, Chauhan’s work too unfolds at the intersection of the social and literary movements that the Dalits of Gujarat waged in the 1970s and 1980s. While his activism led him to engage with radical organizations like Gujarat Dalit Panther (1974) and Dalit Sangharsh Sangh (1982), which practised a politics of agitation and active resistance, the radical magazines like Kalo Suraj (The Black Sun), Akrosh4 (Outrage) and Sarvanam (Pronoun) he was closely associated with between 1979 and 1986 cleared space for laying the foundation of the Dalit Literary Movement in Gujarati. During this period, when Gujarat burned with violent anti-reservation riots, Chauhan brought out anthologies of Dalit poetry, short magazines and investigative booklets that condemned atrocities on Dalits and exposed the state’s complicity in the conflagration. Due to his untiring literary activism, Gujarati Dalit literature could chalk out a radical literary manifesto in 1987, in the ‘Introduction’ of a collection of Dalit short stories titled Gujarati Dalit Varta, sealing the boundaries of its definition and functions for the future generations of Dalit writers. To Chauhan, Dalit literature is essentially resistance literature, which ‘echoes Dalit grievances and the experience of humiliation, exasperation and anger. It deals with the neo-Brahminism of Dalits, focusing on its solutions, repercussions and controversies, and it also . . . is the sum total of Desivad (nativism), Dalitvad (“Dalitism”), rural sensibility and feminism’ (Chauhan, 2007: 134). The resistance, he further clarifies, is against the Hindu religion, which has discursively and historically not only excluded Dalits from language, knowledge and education but also legitimized their

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subordination and exploitation; it’s a subaltern resistance against the stranglehold of Brahminical hegemony that enabled and authorized their expulsion from history, culture and humanity. Evidently, discursive exclusion and dehumanization could be written off discursively through a reclamation of language and construction of narratives that reconstitute Dalit memory and experience; literature had to be deployed as a potent means to reclaim power and place in the history. ‘I want to chronicle our history and our resistance, so I use village dialects and bring mythological characters into my works,’ Chauhan avers. To this end, he made it his life’s mission to interrogate historical, mythological and literary metanarratives and rewrite them from the standpoint of the invisibilized victims and silenced communities. The endeavour has been to recover an alternative memory—the vulture’s memory—which has been shunted to the margins by the custodians of cultural memory because the vulture’s hermeneutic of lived realities unsettles and subverts the culture’s truth-claims about identity, progress and civilization. Received mythologies are deftly destabilized in a number of Chauhan’s plays like Anaaryavart (Land of the Anaarya), Antim Dhyeya (The Ultimate Goal) and Patan ne Gondare (On the Frontiers of Patan); all of them, inherently iconoclastic and irreverent, constitute a subversive take on national and regional grand narratives. In order to point out the glaring absence, in the annals of recorded history, of the Dalits’ autonomy and difference from the Hindu social and religious structures, Anaaryavart stages an encounter between Vyasa, who,

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as a representative and champion of the lower-caste communities known as the Anaarya, approaches his half-brother Bhishma with a demand for a sovereign and independent state. Thrown in prison and forced to perform niyoga with Vichitravirya’s widows, Vyasa tears into the dirty politics behind Bhishma’s vow of celibacy, calling it a malicious design to achieve personal greatness and lust for power. Similarly, Antim Dhyeya imagines Jara, Eklavya’s son, as carrying out Krishna’s assassination for the latter’s collusion in the genocidal act of burning down the Khandava forest, the abode of so many Anaarya communities. In a dialogue before the execution, Jara subjects Krishna’s grand ideas of inclusive development and universal welfare to unforgiving scrutiny and chastises him for the ruthless extermination of the Anaarya, just because they had dared to resist the Aryan aggression on their culture and lifeworld. If these plays dismantle the cultural authority of the Mahabharata, Patan ne Gondare shines a critical light on the ruptures in the state’s authenticated, continuous history constructed in the works of the literary giant, K.M. Munshi. Chauhan pits icons of Gujarati asmita (regional pride) like shrewd Brahmin statesman Munjal Mehta and oppressive Chalukya king Siddhraj Jaysingh (c. 1092–c. 1142), whom readers encounter in Munshi’s celebrated Patan Trilogy (trans. 2017–19), against the Dalit legend of Veer Mayo, who had bravely sacrificed his life to secure dignity and humanity for his community. In the play, Mayo calls out the oppressive rule of the king, who is portrayed in the dominant history as a patron of the arts and literature, a visionary educationist and

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a tolerant and egalitarian emperor, for discriminatory restrictions on the life and movement of the untouchables in his state and mobilizes his community to insurgency for reclaiming their personhood and human dignity. Munjal Mehta hatches a conspiracy to get Mayo out of the way by whipping up the scare of imminent famine that could be averted only by recouping the Sahastralinga lake; however, the lake wouldn’t fill up without taking the sacrifice of a man, no less virtuous than Mayo. Seeing no way out of the nasty trap, the brave hero decides to bargain his community’s liberation in lieu of his death by eliciting five promises from the king—settlements near the village, a tulsi plant and a peepul tree in the courtyard of the house, having genealogists for securing family trees and shedding of dehumanizing identity markers like cheap headgear, spittoon around neck, broom behind back and three-sleeved shirt. By retelling the story of Mayo’s struggle to assert the quintessential humanity of his community, Chauhan not only excavates a valorized historical lineage for Dalits in Gujarat but also helps Dalit movement trace its cultural identity to a distinctive form of Dalit modernity that Mayo embodied. Again, Chauhan’s story ‘The Payback’ presents a subversive counterpoint to another mainstream Gujarati novel that claims to capture the zeitgeist of Gujarat, the invincibility of its spirit and proud agrarian identity. The novel by Pannalal Patel titled Manavi ni Bhavai (Endurance: A Droll Saga), published on the eve of Indian independence, fetched the author the prestigious Jnanpith Award in 1985; its film adaptation in 1993 won the National Film Award. The defining theme of the novel, from which the

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English translation probably derives its title, is the crushing agrarian angst articulated by the protagonist Kalu when he queues up for charity grains during Chhappaniyo Dukal (Indian Famine of 1899–1900). He says, ‘It’s not the hunger really, but the act of begging to douse it which demeans’ (1947: 231, my translation). Chauhan develops this theme in a caste framework and brilliantly shows how during Chhappaniyo, the pauperized, famished upper-caste villagers shed their caste inhibitions and showed up at the door of untouchables under the cover of night to beg for sun-dried meat of carcasses. Through an astute deployment of the power of alternative stories, he subverts the collective memory, points out gaps in the popular narrative and makes the silences therein speak. Nothing wrong with singing hosannas to the past depicted in Munshi’s Patan Trilogy, but for a perspective on the present, we should also read Chauhan’s trilogy—Bhalbhankharu (The Dawn, 2004), Rashava Suraj (The Low Noon, 2012) and Bapor (The High Noon, 2022)—which inscribes the edited-out history of injustice, unimaginable atrocities and the uphill struggle for rights waged by Dalits in the first half of the twentieth century. Semi-autobiographical in nature, the trilogy captures in vivid details the trials and tribulations suffered by Dalit bodies, as they migrated from the village—the dark ‘den of ignorance’—to the urban utopia of Ahmedabad in search of light and life.

*** A quest for this perspective drives the present anthology to undertake the micro-analysis of and interstitial engagement

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with an urgent set of questions surrounding Dalit lives in a rapidly changing sociopolitical, economic and cultural map of India. Like most of Chauhan’s writings, the stories showcase a deep engagement with history and memory as tools not only for affirming a distinct cultural identity but also for foregrounding the imaginary of an alternative equalitarian existence. They are bound by a powerful trope, the trope of fear on which a caste society feeds, thrives and flourishes. To my mind, Zygmunt Bauman’s concept of Liquid Fear (2006), though originally fashioned in a different context, best explains the looming state of anxiety, acutely tangible and yet diffuse, about the dangers of violence, humiliation, catastrophe and death that can visit, unpredictably and unannounced, upon Dalit bodies in a caste society. At its deepest core, it’s a Hobbesian fear experienced by society’s least fortunate inhabitants who helplessly watch the structures of democracy, justice and humanity crumble all around them. The liquid, flowing fear, flooding the caste framework, resultantly becomes not only the fear of precarious existence in a violent, feudal matrix but also an embodied fear embedded in the self, pitted against discriminatory institutions, political structures and organized religion. And this fear drives Dalit lives regardless of the locations they occupy; the sites of modernity are as fraught and vulnerable as the sites of orthodoxy, something which detains the community in ‘the waiting room of history’ (Zecchini, 2018: 75) even in the twenty-first century. The anthology, in a way, is a call to liberate the otherized self from the regimes of fear. The eponymous story ‘Fear’ captures the moments of heroic resistance put up by spirited Dalit youths in

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1975 in Golana against the traditional rights of the Kshatriya community that entitled them to ‘enter’ a Dalit household at will and molest Dalit women. In the story, the pair of shoes in the veranda of a Dalit house symbolize the Dalit life crushed under the upper-caste feet; they also signify an objectified fear, fear that exacted awe and submission simultaneously in the customary, for example, Dalit behaviours like cleaning the shoe hurled by an upper-caste man before respectfully putting it back at his feet. Even in the Golana incident, though the youngsters were determined to put an end to the rampant sexual exploitation of Dalit women, the elders finally had to expiate for it by carrying in their mouths the shoes, torch and turban of the Kshatriya man who, after being challenged, had run for his life, leaving behind these articles. The story dramatizes the liquid, visceral fear of a ‘lunatic’, the elder brother of one of the spirited youths, who dies by suicide eventually, fearing for his brother’s life. It also questions the larger issue of normalization of centuriesold sexual exploitation of Dalit women in a society that witnesses, by the latest count, more than four rapes of Dalit women every day and doesn’t bat an eyelid. Among other factors responsible for the naturalization of such violence, Chauhan pins the blame most squarely on bhavai performances, in particular the skit titled ‘Dhedh no Vesha’ (The Cast of a Dhe . . .) that has ossified the representation of Dalit women as willing, loose and expendable objects of sexual gratification.5 Eleven years later, Golana became the flashpoint of a horrifying massacre when four spirited Dalit activists

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were murdered in broad daylight for toying with the idea of building houses on the land allotted to them by the government. The theme of the home(land)—reminiscent of Ambedkar’s famous reply to Gandhi ‘I have no homeland’—is explored masterfully by Chauhan in his novel Malak (Homeland, 1991) as well as in the story ‘Home’, where the tragic struggle of Kalu to build a pucca house in a village that resents the idea of equality and rejects the humanity of untouchables finds bloodcurdling depiction. Malak describes the subhuman and precarious condition of Dalits in north Gujarat on the eve of Independence. The village turns a blind eye to the romance between a high-caste woman (whose husband is impotent) and a Dalit man until the woman gives birth to a boy to extend the family’s line of descent. The ire of the village then turns to the Dalit ghetto, sending it up in flames. The saga of suffering, culminating in the exodus of the whole community from the village—the land of their ancestors they held so dear—resonates with searing poignancy.6 Since the days of land reforms, which historically benefited the dominant Patidar caste more than the Dalits, right to land ownership has been the centrepiece of Dalit social movements in Gujarat; especially, in the post-Una agitations (2016), it has been projected as a powerful instrument of Dalits’ socio-economic emancipation. However, of late, Dalit intellectuals in Gujarat have been looking upon agriculture as a less viable option for Dalits, due to the lack of professional skills within the community, a general agrarian crisis and neoliberal government policies (Solanki, 2019). Their focus is more

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on the assertion of the right to education as a way of climbing up the social ladder. In ‘The Invasion’, Chauhan seems to straddle both these positions. Invoking a closely material as well as intensely affective relationship between Dalit labour and land, Chauhan suggests that land can never be struck off as a solution to the Dalit predicament; it provides autonomy, sustenance and self-respect to the community. However, Natho’s liberation from the regime of fear emanates also from his consciousness of his rights, his competence to agitate and fight legal battles, and so on. Not falling for an either-or proposition, Chauhan invests hope in these dual modes of Dalit empowerment. In fact, Chauhan has never tired of upholding education as a great enabler of Dalit emancipation. In his remarkable semi-autobiographical novel Bhalbhankhalu, Chauhan dramatizes the double bind the weaver protagonist Vhalo finds himself in as he sets out to enrol his daughter Mani in the village school in the wake of the state order.7 Not so much from the fear of fine as out of the desire to educate Mani, Vhalo, who had already burnt his fingers earlier in case of his son Savo, decides to confront the village. But disabused of his romantic notions gradually by the indifferent and accusatory attitude of his own community as well as the growing violence directed at the Dalit settlement, he finally gives in to a please-all compromise, whereby Mani is allowed enrolment but never an entry. While stories like ‘The Visiting Card’ and ‘Darbar’ in this collection enact the struggles to transcend Vhalo’s deep-seated fears, they simultaneously ambiguate the efficacy of education by juxtaposing the contradictions inherent in the affirmative

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action programme and Gandhian gospel of a reformingthe-upper-caste-mindset as solutions to the caste question. ‘The Visiting Card’ projects a Dalit student’s struggle to pursue medicine in the long shadow of the anti-reservation riots that ruined so many promising lives in 1981.8 Like her father, who had to drop out of an engineering college to save his life, Meena Kapadia fails to achieve her dream due to the machinations of a hostile Chemistry teacher. The gritty woman persists and becomes a homeopath, but the fact Chauhan rues is how hollow and half-baked the project of secular modernity in India has remained even in the twenty-first century. Interestingly, at times, it is the fear in the mind of the savarna of their caste rivals getting even or ahead of them that preclude the Dalits from breaking free of the straitjacket of conventional identity; at other times, it is the inherent fear of humiliation within the upwardly mobile Dalit selves that force them to sever ties with the community and resort to the camouflage of Sanskritized identities. In ‘Cold Blood’, Chauhan chastises the educated, upwardly mobile Dalit class for donning the neoBrahmin mask and living a life in error. The story unfolds in the context of the anti-reservation riots when a number of Dalits from what was derogatorily called ‘creamy layer’—those who were in government services starting from a sweeper to a Member of the Legislative Assembly—had changed their names and/or surnames to escape institutionalized discrimination in public life. The trend of changing caste names in Gujarat goes back to the nineteenth century and apparently, Dalit poets like Neerav Patel and Dalpat Chauhan have also changed

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their names for what Ambedkar called ‘protective discolouration’.9 However, ‘Cold Blood’ narrates the tale of a Dalit doctor, Dr Devendra Parikh, who changes his surname upon his migration to the city and turns a blind eye to the manoeuvres of caste in his village, only to be traumatized when the relatives of an upper-caste deceased man from his village, whom he saves by giving his blood, refuse to accept a glass of water from his hands. The author astutely problematizes the idea of Dr Parikh’s modernity, which doesn’t grant him humanity despite his education, noble profession and a bottle of blood. A different kind of Sanskritization, a corollary of ‘the existential fear of the other . . . accompanied by a process of “demonization”’ (Jahanbegloo, 2017: 10) forms the bedrock of ‘If Only This Truck Conked Out’. The story encapsulates the complex dynamic of Dalit–Muslim relationship in Gujarat and the ideological co-option of the former into the turbulence of militant Hindutva in the run-up to the demolition of the Babri mosque. In a concise narrative space conjured up by an account of forced migration of a Hindu family from a chawl after distress-selling their ‘home’ to a Muslim, Chauhan tries to map the intercommunal and cultural geography of Ahmedabad, organized in labyrinthine chawls around textile mills in the 1960s and its systematic ghettoization over a series of communal and caste riots in the city. Speaking to me, Chauhan reminisced about the sustained solidarity between Dalits and Muslims in the communal conflagrations of 1969 and 1981, both of which ripped the façade of Mahajan culture as well as the moral fabric of Gujarati society; but 1986, he said, witnessed a

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peculiar shift in the political affiliation of Dalits. While the ideological volte-face of the Dalits has been explained by several scholars in economic, cultural and psycho-social terms (Teltumbde, 2005; Patel, 2011),10 Chauhan seems to rue, in subtle and nuanced tones, the peculiar position of Dalits in the caste-communal configuration of the state in which they are seen as ‘the other’ by upper-caste Hindus as well as Muslims. However, I see the story as taking a leap from a specific social context and becoming a universal saga of the sorry human condition, brought about by violent displacement and forced migration. The burden of memories that a displaced human being is condemned to carry for a lifetime defines the enormous human costs of motivated sociopolitical strife in societies and civilizations across borders. In addition to the ideological takeover, the co-option of Dalits into deceptive Hindu theology poses grave challenges to the Dalit movement in India today. Stories like ‘Buffaloed’ and ‘Touch of Snake’ attribute the issues of internal hierarchy amongst Dalits and their maddening quest for a spiritual core to the misplaced sense of spiritual power derived out of negative conditions like caste, poverty and historical amnesia; such phantom power, embedded in irrationality and the blind aping of the oppressor’s religion, becomes for the community a source of self-deluding marginality and ensures its continued subjugation. The tanner protagonist Ranachhod in ‘Buffaloed’ fails to take out moral outrage at his feudal lord who sends a living he-buffalo to the scrubland for stripping and eventually decides to observe a fast of Agiyaras to redeem himself from the

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sin of butchery. As the combined guilt of impotence and slaughter emasculates him, driving him to seek refuge in spiritual self-flagellation, the subtle import of the story’s title, establishing a synonymy between him and the hebuffalo, further crystalizes in the reader’s mind. Again, the tortuous ways in which Hinduization of local cults and folk deities lead to the ossification of caste-identities constitute the theme of ‘Touch of Snake’, a story that masterfully narrates the predicament of a scavenger within the framework of the shapeshifting cult of Goga pir. The cult of Goga, going back to the eleventh century, originated amongst the peasant-pastoral communities such as Chamar, Mirasans, Kalbelias and Gaduliyas in Rajasthan. However, the pir, hailing from a lower caste, was discursively transformed into a Chauhan Rajput by the seventeenth century and acquired a pristine Rajput identity by the nineteenth century. Historically, the Rajputization of Goga led to his association in popular imagination with the Jujhar deities, whose cult was repurposed to fit in the Vaishnava version of cow protection (Vaidik, 2020). In the story, the village that gets hysterical to save Mohan’s cow from the depths of a well chooses to be a mute witness to the gradual demise of Viro’s snake-bitten son, most of all Mohan himself who refuses to suck the venom out of the kid’s body for the fear of pollution. The refusal of Mohan, a low-caste herdsman and a staunch worshipper of Goga, painfully accentuates the caste divisions within the Dalit community; in fact, he symbolizes a pastoral ontology and religiosity that have lost their conventional, communitarian and spiritual moorings under the hegemonic influence of high-caste

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traditions. As a counterpoint to the divisive, hierarchical and discriminatory Hindu doctrine, Chauhan conjures up a new imaginary of Dalit spirituality based on the ethic of equality, brotherhood and humanity in ‘The Third Eye’.

*** Finally, let me leave you with ideas of freedom and humanity Rohit Vemula left this venomous world in his suicide note. ‘The value of a man,’ he wrote, ‘was reduced to his immediate identity and nearest possibility. To a vote. To a number. To a thing. Never was a man treated as a mind. As a glorious thing made up of stardust.’ Vemula reminds one of Ambedkar’s famous Constituent Assembly speech, delivered on 25 November 1949. But he goes a step further by linking humans to not only other humans and living beings but also to the stardust, i.e., the non-living. In the age of Anthropocene, when climate change is forcing us to be sensitive to our connections with and dependence on ‘microbial and other small forms of life (that) constitute both by weight and numbers the bulk of life on the planet and are central to the drama of life’ (Chakrabarty, 2021: 117); where would caste disgust for the body of a fellow human leave us? A clearly anthropogenic pandemic has underlined for us how critical ‘touch’ is to human phenomenology and how hopelessly dependent we are on the touch of others for recognizing our own humanity. The stories in this collection ‘touched’ me in profound and transformative ways. Hope, you too, will be.

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ow long will we drag on like this—tell me how long—within these crumbling walls and on this blasted cow-dung floor? It has been months since you spoke to Fulabha . . . I’m sick and tired of your hollow promises. You’ve just been delaying, knowingly perhaps.’ Pani took off as soon as Kalu broached the subject of building a pucca house. It never stopped nagging her that the village had deliberately kept the matter pending for these many years. Today, she could not contain her rage. There are limits to human patience and self-deception after all, she fumed. ‘Listen now. Do you think I don’t feel bad about it? It bugs me no end too. But what can we do? We are dhe . . .11, and the village resents the idea of us having a pucca house, with brick walls and all. Why blame them when our own destiny is rotten?’ Trying to keep his cool, Kalu began to reason with his wife. But the cold fatalism in his tone incensed Pani even more. She curled her lip, snorted in disdain and looked away, her nostrils flaring and eyes blazing. 1

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‘Why the hell do you pull a face like that? Why, you build it if you’ve the guts? Even your father cannot build a brick-and-mortar house without the consent of the village, okay? You just go on and on with your crazy rubbish! Show me a single dhe . . . in the entire region who owns a pucca house.’ Kalu’s pent-up rage and smothered emotions burst out. Pani fell silent, not because Kalu had flown into a rage but because his words had a ring of truth. After a while, when her anger cooled down, she slowly turned her gaze towards Kalu and asked gently, ‘Didn’t that Hartanji promise to put a word to Pathubha? What came out of that? It’s better to have support; approaching people on your own will not serve any purpose.’ ‘I know all that, damn it. That Hartanji has guzzled three bottles of booze on me so far. But when I ask him to come with me and speak to the mukhi, he vanishes into thin air.’ A lump of self-disgust and bitterness formed within Kalu. He stopped for a moment as if waiting for it to dissolve. More than with anyone else, he was furious with himself. ‘You can’t imagine how I pleaded with him. Almost grovelled, one could say. But these bastards can’t stomach even a slight easing up of an outcaste’s life.’ ‘Think of a way out of this, please. God’s been kind to us, and he’ll provide. But if you snatch the goat out of the lion’s mouth, the whole region will swear by Kalu’s courage.’ Pani tickled Kalu’s masculine ego to egg him on. But Kalu closed his eyes, heaved a sigh and mumbled, ‘Even I want to find a way around this, but Pathubha won’t

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budge. That bloody son of a koli was heard saying, “Now these dhe . . . too aspire for a pucca house. They want to throw dust over time-tested tradition and spit in the face of the entire village. Where would we be without decency and decorum dictated by convention?”’ Seeing that the talk about erecting a pucca house had left her husband dispirited, Pani felt sad and stood up to leave. Kalu held her hand and asked her to sit down, his eyes moist with honey-sweet affection. ‘In the evening, there’ll be an opium party at the village office. All the bigwigs, including the village head, will be there.’ Kalu looked around cautiously, lowered his voice and continued, ‘I’ve greased Hartanji’s palm, understood? Two rupees, not a paisa less, so that he can put up our proposal before the village. Wait and see, there’ll be a call for me from the office.’ ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Good God, today is an auspicious day, and if things fall into place, I’ll offer a plateful of ghee-dripping halwa to Mother Kali.’ Pani folded her hands and closed her eyes in a quick prayer. Then, she touched the floor, freshly daubed with cowdung, with her right hand and caressed her head with the same hand as a way of securing Mother Earth’s blessings. ‘There’ll be time for your rites and rituals. Go and call that Chhagan from across the lane first. Going to the village office all alone isn’t a good idea. Having someone seasoned by one’s side gives strength to the heart. Should something stupid trip out of my mouth, he’ll be there to help manage,’ Kalu reasoned in a slightly heavy voice as if to temper the surge of excitement in Pani’s behaviour.

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However, the verve and hope in Pani’s demeanour lightened the atmosphere miraculously. She jumped up to her feet and almost ran out into the street. There was a visible spring in her step. Reaching the squat hut of Chhagan, she called out impatiently, ‘Chhaganbhai? O Chhaganbhai, are you there?’ ‘Ya, I’m right here. What has come over you that you are shouting like this from outside? Come inside . . .’ ‘Your bhai is calling you. Both of you are to go to the village office right now.’ There was no summons from the office so far, but Pani was in high spirits, and she saw no harm in going slightly overboard. ‘Is everything alright? Have they sent for us? What wrong did we do?’ A streak of deep fear cracked Chhagan’s voice. ‘Nothing like that. You’ve to just accompany your bhai, so get ready, quickly.’ Pani sped back to her hut without waiting for Chhagan’s reaction. As soon as she stepped in, she began to complain in mock anger, ‘Now see, this sahib is taking his ease. Get ready fast. People in the office will not wait for you once the summons is issued, understood?’ Kalu quickly put on a collarless, sleeveless, short shirt and an off-white headcloth, a rag of nonwoven fabric that his people were duty-bound to tie around their heads whenever they ventured out. He fastened his dhoti once again, adjusted its accordion pleats, came out in the courtyard and sat waiting for Chhagan in a small, square string cot. Chhagan showed up after a while and asked straight away, too anxious to exchange pleasantries.

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‘What’s the matter? What did you do to offend the village?’ ‘The thing is, I want to erect a pucca house. The big shots of the village are meeting for an opium party at the village office. They will consider the matter. If they approve, touch wood, I will start the construction work. The material I’d bought for the purpose has been lying unused for so long. I’m afraid it’ll go waste. You know my nature; I am quite capable of botching things up. So, I thought, it would be good if someone calm, like you, accompanied me.’ Kalu shared all the details of the issue at hand, except for his secret deal with Hartanji. ‘Will those bastards agree to it?’ Chhagan asked as the sheer audacity of the proposal knit his eyebrows and scrunched up his features in a heavy frown. ‘All will be fine. You just come along. I’ve arranged everything.’ Finding himself in a tight corner, Kalu gently pricked the bubble of secrecy to dispel Chhagan’s suspicions. ‘Hope, your arrangements are foolproof. You know, people’s stomach churn, if we so much as raise our eyes. Have you taken your customers into confidence?’ ‘Yes, they’ve taken it upon themselves this time. That is how the idea has risen once again like a phoenix. Otherwise, I’ve been after it for three years now, but you know how nobody gave a damn.’ ‘Kalu, I’ll give you a piece of advice if you care to listen: You drop this idea if you know what is good for you. You’re playing with fire. Even my elders toyed with it once. Hope you remember that. That poor Ramo the

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potter had agreed to provide the bricks . . . and how dearly he paid for it. The same night, his house was burgled and what a thorough job they did; not a single paisa was left behind. And that reminds me, who will supply the wooden poles and planks, let alone the bricks?’ ‘God is great. He’ll provide.’ ‘Don’t bring your god into this. I’m sure you still remember how Megho the carpenter’s shop suddenly caught fire when he was readying shutters for your door and how you had to pay for all the damages.’ Chhagan was bringing up old memories to dissuade Kalu of his dangerous obsession. But Kalu’s resolve was as firm and strong as reinforced cement concrete. ‘I am not the one to give up, Chhagan. Didn’t they burgle my house twice? Raked through every nook and cranny for hard cash, you see, but to no avail. They may dig up my hut, but they can’t lay their hands on my secret vault. But I am done playing hide-and-seek with them. Before anything goes wrong, I want to use the money up for a pucca house. No more cash, no more worries.’ ‘Why don’t you deposit it with the village baniya if you’re worried about its safety? You’ll earn some money on the side by way of interest,’ advised Chhagan. ‘Are you talking about that bloody Tilakchand? You probably don’t know it, but the bugger polished off my father’s fifteen hundred and did not even burp. Even today, he does not admit it, says that “it was due on account”. I can’t understand his account books and the black and red ants within. These people are like the proverbial curved tail of a pi-dog. You bury it underground to straighten it, but when you dig it out, it’ll curl up once again.’

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Kalu burst into a quick snicker, but it fizzled out just as quickly when Chhagan kept staring at him with a deadpan face. ‘I still can’t believe they’ve agreed to consider the proposal,’ he persisted. ‘If it’s destined to happen, nobody can stop it. And if the idea is doomed, nobody can salvage it. I surrender to his will,’ Kalu almost preached. ‘Both he and you are doomed, mark my words. You won’t realize it now, but you’ll remember me when they break your bones.’ ‘Let us see. His will be done,’ said Kalu, pointing his index finger towards the sky just when the booming voice of Babu, the barber, echoed in the street. ‘Pathubha has summoned Kalu dhe . . . Present yourself at the village office immediately.’ Kalu leapt up from his string cot to answer the call, ‘Okay. You go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.’ Once Babu left, Kalu turned to Chhagan, elation daubed all over his face, ‘Didn’t I tell you there’ll be a summons for me? Let’s go now. You’re ready, aren’t you?’ And both of them set out for the village administrative office, lathi in hand and anxiety writ large on their dark faces glistening with sweat. Above them, bats and parrots, flying in the gathering dusk to their roosts in the sprawling neem trees, created a huge commotion. Guessing about the questions the boozers would ask and the precise replies he would give turned Kalu’s mind into a madhouse. ‘There you go, Pathubha. Bloody dhe . . . are here,’ somebody from the group of feudal lords attending the village head’s party pointed out with an easy sneer. Kalu

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and Chhagan closed in softly, wary of their steps lest they kicked up too much dust or din. Stopping at a safe distance from where the group was sitting, they greeted everybody with folded hands. ‘These scums are dreaming of living in a pucca house. What cheek!’ ‘Just look at their fancy clothes. As if they are out for a wedding procession.’ ‘Tell me one thing, if they start living in brick houses, where will we live? In a house made of gold?’ ‘You’d better ask them to push off or I’ll break their bones.’ ‘For that, you’ll have to touch them and get polluted. Why not try these shoes instead? A smarter idea, isn’t it?’ They burst into roaring laughter. Kalu could not make out the exchange from a distance, but he knew what the loud guffaw meant. His face fell and his legs began to shake. He was in for a heavy fine or, even worse, a summary banishment from the village. But now, there was no going back. ‘Now listen, you all,’ the sozzled voice of Pathubha rang out, and the scattered murmuring died down. ‘This dhe . . . is from our village, isn’t it? What is your name, hey you?’ he looked pointedly at Kalu, feigning forgetfulness and cocked his centipede-thick eyebrows. ‘I am Kalu, bha!’ Kalu mewled, his folded hands and drooping shoulders enacting absolute humility. ‘Yes . . . Kalu. So, this Kalu wants to build a new house. The matter was referred to me by none but Hartanji. So, I’ve summoned him here.’ He stopped as if to breathe and began to look around with authority.

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‘Where are you, Hartanji? What do you say?’ His voice was melting in the haze of opium. Others around him were busy taking turns, formally offering and receiving opium-rich water with their cupped hands. ‘What can an underling like me say in these matters? You’re the head. Whatever you decide will be acceptable to us.’ Hartanji killed two birds with a single stone: He massaged the inflated ego of Pathubha while slyly rolling the ball of the decision into his court. ‘In that case, listen everybody. Just because it’s a recommendation from Hartanji and all of you have authorized me to take a suitable decision, I herewith pass the order. There should be no dissent or questions about it later.’ His head kept lolling from side to side as he drawled on under the haze of opium. His cohorts cheered him on from the depths of their intoxicated stupor. He cleared his throat and fondled his handlebar moustaches. Then closing his eyes dreamily, he decreed, ‘This Kalu will have a pucca house of his own in this village.’ A funereal silence fell on the party. All but Hartanji felt that the village head had bungled up; he kept smiling shrewdly. Someone from the back protested: ‘Bha, this is not fair. What about conventions? What about village decorum?’ ‘And what about my word? You didn’t so much as fart when I asked.’ Such explicit objection drove the village head up the wall. Throwing a fake tantrum, he roared at his sidekick, ‘Where the hell is my staff?’ and began to look around frantically. Everybody was filled with fear at the mention of the staff. Realizing that his ploy had worked, Pathubha

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instantly feigned the cooling of his temper and declaimed, ‘Go and start building your brick house. The House has granted you approval. But see to it that it’s no bigger than what the House mandates. No floors above the ground floor, okay? Hope you’ve enough land for the purpose.’ ‘Yes bha, with your blessings,’ Kalu heaved a muted sigh of relief. But Chhagan’s heart was still beating in his mouth. ‘How high are you going to keep the ceiling? First clarify that . . .’ A middle-aged man known as Mohan, the old fart, rose unsteadily on his feet and demanded, scorn dripping from his words. ‘As high as you permit, bha. Not an inch higher . . .’ Kalu’s voice shook. On seeing Mohan speak up, others too gained confidence. ‘You fix the height of the ceiling, Mohanbha. You know best. If this rogue breaches it, he’ll have it,’ a faceless voice echoed from the pitch dark. Kalu knew Mohan inside out; just a couple of days ago, he had downed a full bottle of booze at his expense. ‘Then listen, you all,’ Mohan launched into an authoritative mode, a sense of self-importance washing all over him. ‘Disobeying Pathubha’s order is out of the question. The house should span not more than thirty feet to the east and twenty to the north. No windows in the front, understood? No niche in any walls for cupboards or a showcase. The pair of shutters in the doorframe should be plain. No carvings or designs therein, got it? And yes, they should be fixed only with the prior approval of the House.’

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‘Ask him about the height of the ceiling. That’s most important,’ an impatient, guttural voice tooted from the back rows. That had everybody laughing uproariously. ‘Oh yes, the ceiling should be as high as . . .’ Mohan fumbled, for words or maybe for an idea, nobody knew. ‘If the mukhi raises his hand, it should touch the ceiling, okay?’ ‘There you are, Mohanbha. Salute to your sense of justice.’ The impromptu expression of praise from the dark sparked off a collective rooting for Mohan’s astute judgement. Kalu acquiesced to each condition with obsequious head nods. But those restrictions didn’t make him as uneasy as the question squirming in his head. He kept gazing anxiously at Pathubha for permission to speak, who obliged at last with a grunt. ‘Bha, I’ll hire your cart to carry the bricks, but I don’t know which route to take for transport. If you could fix the route as well . . .’ ‘Who’s going to supply the bricks?’ ‘Bha, Ramji the potter has agreed, the one whose kiln is on the lake.’ ‘Oh . . . In that case, the cart will move right through the village, which is not proper. Take a bypass through the acacia woods instead. Of course, that would be a longer route. But decorum must be maintained. My name would be dragged through the dirt in the entire region if I allowed a dhe . . . to transport bricks through the village.’ ‘Okay bha, as you wish,’ Kalu readily agreed. ‘And listen, everything has to be done in consultation with Hartanji. Alright?’

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Without waiting for Kalu’s response, the village head dismissed the duo with a sharp wave of his hand. Kalu heard the last remark but didn’t wish to bother about it now. He and Chhagan rushed back at the speed of a piglet escaping the jaws of hungry dogs. The desire to share the news with people in the lane had charged them with a ghostlike vigour. A couple of days later, Hartanji showed up at the gate of the weavers’ lane and called out for Kalu gruffly. ‘Kalu . . . Where the hell are you? Are you at home?’ ‘Oho, Hartanji! Welcome . . . welcome. Is everything alright?’ Kalu ran up to the gate of the lane to greet him and stood at a traditionally sanctioned distance with folded hands. ‘Come closer, this is confidential.’ Kalu walked up to him on alert lest his touch should defile Hartanji. ‘Hope you remember Pathubha’s last instruction?’ ‘Yes . . . yes. I remember it. Tell me, what do you want me to do?’ ‘I hear, you’ve got a goat and a kid. Come in the evening to my farm with the kid and five rupees for five bottles of booze. That’ll take care of the hard time I had convincing the mukhi.’ Hartanji kept a keen eye on Kalu’s changing expressions as he whispered almost in his ears. Dusk gathered on Kalu’s face. He looked down at the toe of his right foot that was digging into the sand nervously and muttered, ‘I’ll manage five rupees anyhow, no worries even if I’ve to borrow them. But I’ve pledged this kid goat to Mother Goddess. Don’t know if I can give it away. Mother will be angry with me.’

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‘Then leave it, you rogue. I deigned to intervene because you were after me for so long. Now that the approval has been granted, you think up excuses?’ Hartanji snapped back, a familiar, intensifying harshness lacing his voice. ‘Do you want to erect a pucca house or not?’ The question was sharp and pointed like an arrow and it did the trick in a single prick, leaving Kalu flaccid like a deflated balloon. He limped back to his hut, brought five coins and dropped them in Hartanji’s palm from above. The clank of the coins jarred on his nerves. Overwrought, he promised to hand over the kid goat in the evening and hurried back. He didn’t have the nerve to speak to Pani about it until the evening.

*** As dusk fell, Kalu untethered the kid, removed the chain around its neck and slipped the noose of cotton rope in its place. A bolt of suspicion struck Pani’s heart. ‘What are you doing? Why did you unleash the kid at this hour?’ questioned Pani, acute anxiety rasping in her voice. ‘Now, don’t start blabbering about things you don’t understand,’ Kalu whined, cutting her short. ‘Then why don’t you make me “understand”? Come clean. What are you doing?’ Pani sounded curt and cold. Helpless, Kalu narrated the whole story in lurid detail, his eyes dripping profusely. The tears rolling down her husband’s cheeks softened Pani’s heart. ‘I’ve reared this kid as my own son. Buy that bastard a new kid later,’ she whimpered, inconsolable.

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‘Where will I get a new one from at this hour? They’re having a party tonight at Hartanji’s. They won’t let us lay the foundations of our house if I say no.’ Pani wanted to say a big ‘no’ to her son’s slaughter, to this daylight robbery, to the oppressed life the village imposed on them, to their servile existence. She kept looking at the mother goat as bitterness surged within her. The mother goat kept gaping with stony eyes at her kid being taken away. She shook her head once or twice, tried to pull at the peg, but then quietened down. Pani went inside the dark hut but did not light the lamp. Didn’t light the fire. The night inside the hut felt darker than the night outside when Kalu returned. Nobody uttered a word. Pani had gone to bed without eating anything. Kalu lay down in his string cot in the courtyard but couldn’t sleep a wink. He kept tossing and turning until dawn. In the morning, he saw that the clump of lush green grass placed before the mother goat in the trough had remained as it was, untouched.

*** That morning, Moti Maharaj visited Kalu’s hut upon invitation. Kalu touched his feet and made him sit on the string cot. A group of curious middle-aged men from the lane squatted on the ground in front of him. ‘Maharaj, please identify the most auspicious time for laying the foundation stone,’ Kalu requested. ‘Don’t worry, bhai. I’ll fix the best time for you so that your progeny up to seven generations will live in this house in peace,’ Moti Maharaj mumbled from his

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toothless mouth as he rummaged through his cotton sling bag for his almanac. When he located it, he untied the grimy string fastening the roll of yellowish paper and began to peer into it. The foundation stone was laid the next day. The hustle and bustle in the weavers’ lane due to the construction activity, the shouting of masons and labourers and the thwack and clank of carpenters and plumbers continued for around a month. It was nothing short of a festival for all the residents, a new beginning, a new day. Plain wooden shutters and bright, russet roof tiles gave Kalu’s brick house a fabulous look; though it was squat and small, it stood out in the entire lane due to its onion-cell brick design and fresh rooftop. Pani and Kalu were overjoyed. But they had another reason to celebrate as well; Pani was expecting. After years of waiting, they had a double joy at their doorstep. For Pani, it was as if she was bearing twins, a new home and perhaps a handsome son. Kalu felt that in one brilliant, blessed stroke, providence had redeemed his lifetime of hardships and suffering. One afternoon, Kalu and Pani were seated in the courtyard, discussing the inaugural ceremony for their new house. ‘On the day we formally step in the house, we will have Moti Maharaj perform a puja, followed, of course, by a feast for the entire lane,’ said Kalu, a distinct thrill apparent in his voice. ‘We’ll also invite all our relatives from far and wide.’ ‘Make sure that no one is left out, otherwise it’ll be their pet peeve for the rest of our lives.’

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‘Okay, okay, as you wish. But now rest a little. You’ve been slogging like a ghost all these days. Must be tired, eh?’ ‘And what about you? Haven’t you been running from pillar to post, day and night?’ ‘Tomorrow, I’ll pay my respects to Moti Maharaj and ask him to come over to fix the date and time for the inauguration.’ ‘You stole my words. This is great. Enough sleeping in the open.’

*** That evening, a hoarse call for Kalu rose from the gate of the lane again and hung ominously over the street. Kalu, who was working in the courtyard, immediately sneaked into the house and asked Pani to say, ‘He’s not home.’ ‘Ask him to present himself at the office once he’s back. The House is in session.’ Once the booming voice died down, Kalu came out of his hut, took Chhagan along and headed for the village office. Upon reaching, they greeted everybody with folded hands and stood on one side, their heads throbbing and their hearts beating hard. The village head ran a searching glance over them from head to foot and asked, ‘Isn’t your new house ready yet? When are you planning to shift in?’ ‘Bha, the house is ready, but I haven’t shifted in yet. I am waiting for Moti Maharaj to fix the date and time for the inaugural ceremony. Then I’ll be able to shift, probably. The rest is in the hands of the Almighty,’ Kalu

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said with a fatalistic note, knowing full well that it always found favour with village authorities. ‘You’re right. Nothing happens against his will. I thought, let me take stock of the progress. Hence, the summons. You can leave now.’ Let off the hook, Kalu and Chhagan sped back home taking long, hurried strides. But the thought that the group asked nothing else and packed him off threw Kalu into a maddening panic. He was like a soul in torment on his way home. Seeing them return so soon, Pani was relieved. While parting, Kalu could not help pouring his heart out to Chhagan. ‘Bhai, I don’t know what’s going on. Sure, something is amiss. Will you do me a favour? Please go to Maharaj’s village tomorrow on my behalf. I don’t want to leave Pani and the house alone.’ Before entering, Kalu cast an affectionate look at his beaming new house and turned to Pani, ‘I don’t know why they called me. They only asked whether the house was ready and suggested that I should shift soon. Bastards are playing games with a poor man. As if I don’t know what pricks their backsides . . .’ ‘Let them be. Come, wash your hands and feet. I will serve you dinner.’ They sat down on the dusty floor near the door and had rotla and curry. Spreading out their quilts in the courtyard, they lay down under the twinkling sky. Gazing at the arresting beauty of the night, they did not realize when they dozed off. The sound of crickets and raspy chirps of katydids lulled the lane into slumber. A cool breeze caressed their tired bodies with motherly

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affection. Suddenly, Kalu woke up with a start. His house was being bulldozed, he felt. He rose, looked around, went up to the backyard and returned on agitated steps; people in the lane were fast asleep in their courtyards. There was no movement anywhere. Back to his bed, he kept gazing at the pregnant belly of his wife for a moment too long. Then he lay down, soaking the beauty of his pucca house that looked like the baby bump of Mother Earth. He curled up in his bed. For a flitting moment, he felt as if he were a baby about to be born from the womb of the starlit night. His eyelids turned heavy, but he could not sleep. The plot of land on which he had constructed his house used to be the site of the annual bhavai performance. Throngs of people from the villages around, including those of his caste, used to come over to watch the performance. The village head and other upper-caste people would sit on the cots laid out in the front rows, and the residents of the weavers’ lane had to watch it from a distance, standing behind the back rows. He particularly liked the duel between Lord Krishna and his maternal uncle Kamsa, greatly fond as he was of the guttural voice of Kamsa and his walrus moustache. Once, he had tried, just as in the enactment, to pull the moustache of Magan, who played Kamsa, just for the feel of it. The delightful memory of the event perked up his heart. He opened his eyes and looked at Pani. A strong urge to caress the swell on Pani’s belly made his hand quiver involuntarily, but he checked himself. Let her sleep peacefully, he smiled. A female screech owl let out a piercing, shrill cry in the distance. Kalu grumbled, ‘Why the hell do you have

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to cry at this unearthly hour, damn it?’ He looked up; an empire of stars reigned all around. Watching their glittering beauty, he finally dozed off. Slipping into a gentle slumber, he began to dream about him being reborn as Krishna, a dusky youth standing amidst cows with a golden flute. Just then, Kamsa heaves into sight, running madly towards him, brandishing his sword murderously. He wants to flee and hide somewhere, but his feet have struck root. He cannot budge as Kamsa, a threat to his life, moves in on him. As he closes in, his true face is revealed; it is a familiar face, a wicked face, a devilish face. He lets out a horrified cry, ‘He is Pathubha . . . not Kamsa.’ Kamsa laughs a roaring, demonic laugh and holds his sharpened, poisoned sword against his neck. A cry goes out in all directions, rending the air. He begins to spew out hot, leaping flames from his mouth; his mouth enlarges and turns into a bottomless pit. Gigantic jets of scalding lava erupt from his volcanic mouth. People cry out in the lane, ‘Wake up, Kalu! Wake up! Fire . . . fire! Your house went up in flames, Kalu.’ Kalu jumped up. Pani had woken up too. The rear of his house had caught fire like a clump of dry grass. The fire danced like a hooded cobra and gradually swallowed the entire house. People in the lane were trying desperately to douse the fire with whatever little water they had in stock. But the fire was spreading rapidly, engulfing every single inch of his dream house. Pani got up and melted into the bedlam, wailing and weeping hysterically. Kalu remained where he was, in his bed, dumbfounded and deranged. Twisting, billowing flames kept dancing in his glassy eyes.

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t’s time the millets grew cob heads,’ Natho muttered, his eyes glued to his field, swaying with a waist-high crop of pearl millet. In the long line of his ancestry, unrecorded of course, only he had the distinction of owning land in his name. So what if it was no more than a slim patch of government wasteland, a ‘shred’ as they called it? In another first, he had shrewdly inveigled none but the village head into renting him his pair of milk-white bullocks to plough the shred and even sow it without any trouble. And, truly, he was in luck, for it had rained adequately that year. He ran an appreciative glance over the lush green meadow all around him. Pleased with himself and his luck, Natho began to walk carefully along the narrow soil ridge that demarcated his shred. In no time, the scorching September sun would shine over his field and the seeds in the florets would ripen. ‘They say, goddamn the merciless September sun. Under its singeing blaze, many a Kanabi12 turned tail and became monks, never to return,’ Natho chuckled to himself. 20

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But Natho was not to be deterred. And why should he when he had withstood it for as long as thirty years? Since his childhood, he had toiled like a bull in the sprawling farms of the upper-caste landlords as a bonded farmhand. Tiny rivulets of sweat would course their way down his body to his calves and feet and disappear into the dry soil underneath. Scalding, dazzling heat would pour down relentlessly, and the standing millet crop would reel before the eyes of even the sturdiest of farmhands; one after the other, they would faint and drop off like slashed millet stalks. But Natho would be in his element and slave away, with undiminished zest. Generally, an ordinary serf couldn’t cut more than two millet stalks in one sickle swipe, but Natho would grab at least three at a time by their necks and decapitate them in a single, lethal strike. Once the cob heads were chopped off, the remaining thumb-thick stalks, sweet as honey, would soon collapse like feeble, headless torsos. Natho enjoyed the reputation of being a shrewd, bullheaded maverick in the village. Tall and heavy, he looked just like a wrestler. Amongst the handful of untouchables living in the village outskirts, he was the only one with a hot head and a brave heart. Due to his bullish ways, everybody in the village preferred to give him a wide berth; who would confront the proverbial scoundrel whom even a nasty wraith would fear? But his notoriety notwithstanding, the village was undivided on one trait in Natho’s character—that he slaved away in farms unrelentingly for hours together. He would care neither for breaks nor for bread when he was absorbed

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in work. And it may sound rather strange, but for him, this back-breaking work was a labour of love. The sharp swish of his sickle was dearer to him than the jarring splats of handlooms that went on day and night in the houses of his neighbours. Standing at the edge of his land, he lapsed into his pet reverie about reaping a record millet crop that year. He would have so much to do: reaping the crop, arranging the stalks in neat piles, and so on. Sweat would stream down his face; his bare sinewy arms and ebony back would be drenched, but he would not care. Just then, a small butterfly, a pinch of yellow, fluttered about his face. Distracted by the quick winks of movement, he ducked his head, lost his balance and took a pratfall on a heap of dry clods. Bursting out in snorts of self-mocking laughter, he grumbled silently, ‘You idiot! Rein in your fantasy. No signs of cob heads yet, and you’re bloody dreaming about piles of grains. Let the cob heads grow first, then the florets will be filled with seeds, then they will ripen . . .’ However, the brief self-censure could not stop him from slipping into his fond daydream once again. Harvesting a bigha of millets is just a day’s work for me. Give me a razor-sharp sickle, and I’ll pile up the hay in neat stacks. The next day, I’ll tie it up into bundles of equal size. Such a relief that I don’t have to depend on others for labour. My wife and I are enough for all the work. If slaving throughout the day isn’t good enough, we can toil at night as well. Who’s going to stop us? And both of us are sturdy like timber planks, aren’t we? Seasoned grains of pearl millet, you see. We survive on

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the strength of our hands, not on alms, and worse still, kissing ass. As his thoughts dwindled from hope to a shade of despair, a flush of bitterness washed over his face, leaving it bright red. Shuffling along the boundary, he came to the point in the western hedge of his field where he had cut a small clearing. Removing the thorny tumbleweed that plugged it, he crawled out on the narrow, dusty road and pulled the shrubbery back in place with the blade of his longhandled axe. There was a visible spring in his step as he headed home. But the warm smile in his eyes receded as soon as he saw the village head ambling down the road towards him. He stopped in his tracks and, as was customary, moved to the edge of the road to let him pass. Letting his axe rest against his chest, he folded his hands and greeted the village head. ‘Victory to Lord Rama, bha! What brings you here to this side of the village today?’ ‘Rama be victorious, Natho. I’m not as lucky as you are and certainly not so laid-back. I have to worry about the well-being of the entire village and run around day in, day out.’ The blowhard’s leisurely advance came to a halt, along with his bragging. Natho smiled knowingly. ‘You bet, bha! How can a person as curious as you stay home and have peace of mind too?’ Natho’s clever dig wiped the cunning smile off the village head’s face. Keeping his face deadpan, he went straight for the sting, ‘All that is fine. But tell me one thing, what have you sown there, in that government wasteland?’

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When Natho heard the words ‘government wasteland’, his temples began to throb and burn, as though molten lead had been poured into his ears. Salty bitterness rose within him. For a flitting second, he felt like telling his foe to his face to mind his own business. But the village head, for one, had considerable clout in the region and then there was no point courting trouble just for fun. So, he decided to keep his cool and give an astute performance. In a voice choked with an overdose of emotions, he said, ‘Oh! How can you forget it so soon, bha? Agreed, noble men don’t keep track of the kindness they do for the wretched. But I’ll never forget how you used your good offices to get these few bighas transferred to my name. Anyway, do remember now, this isn’t government wasteland anymore, okay?’ ‘Oh . . . I’m sorry if that hurt you.’ The village head made a gesture of remorse and then, unable to suppress the wry smile that spilt his face, immediately turned away. Seething with rage, Natho gnashed his teeth, but then said in a low voice, ‘Why not? It’d hurt, for sure.’ ‘Only a fool would take to heart the words of an elder. The tongue is a boneless creature and slipping is its character, you see. But let me tell you, everybody in the village knows this shred to be a part of government wasteland . . .’ Such double-edged wordplay was getting on Natho’s nerves. But he tried to put on a show of incomprehension, if not indifference. He didn’t see much reason, at least now, to challenge the village head, though what the village head he was getting at, he knew, could hurt

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him in the long run. It had been four years since his name was registered as the rightful owner of the land in the registry of the irrigation department. Further, his swaying pearl millets were there for everyone to see, a mint-fresh certificate that it was he who owned and cultivated the land. Of course, he wouldn’t have got the land without the village head’s intervention; let’s give the devil his due. But does that mean he’d have to grovel for the rest of his life even as the head threw his weight around and treated him like dirt? At once, he felt a churning in his stomach and an unusual heaviness in his chest. Streams of sweat rolled down his temples. Why would the devil have buzzed into this part of the village today of all days, something he’d be loath to do generally? His own farms, all of them, were sprawled on the eastern frontier of the village. Yes, he had a strip here too, but then much of it was under government encroachment and he had never bothered to cultivate it. The village head’s sudden, ominous appearance made Natho furious. Lest something uncivil tripped off his mouth and things got out of hand, he thought it wise to leave. ‘Okay bha, see you then.’ ‘Why are you in such a hurry? At least tell me what you have sown in your shred?’ ‘Nothing much, bha. Just a handful of pearl millets,’ mumbled Natho as he hung his axe on his shoulder and hastened to leave. But the village head was not to be snubbed so easily. He asked in a cold-blooded voice, ‘Is the crop ready for harvesting?’

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Natho felt the lethal stab of the question in his back, but he kept walking, without bothering to turn around or respond.

*** Natho had chosen not to take the bull by the horns, but the village head’s dark, threatening words began to echo in his mind like an ill omen. Why on earth would he have asked about the readiness of the crop? Was it just out of curiosity? Or was there something more to it? A pox on him! Truth be told, from the day the land had been allotted to him, it had become a major sore point with the village authorities; nay, a veritable thorn in the flesh of the entire village. Conventionally, an untouchable couldn’t own land in his name anywhere in the village. Arre, they could not even lay their hands on the handle of a plough, let alone a piece of land. And that convention had remained intact till date. A storm raged in his head. With the enforcement of new legislation, the fortunes of so many Kanabis had changed overnight. From lowly tenants to legitimate land-owning farmers, their climb was steep and stark, but nobody in the village seemed to really mind it. But the idea of an outcaste staking claim to the land, even a shred of government wasteland, was still anathema to everybody, whatever their religion or caste. That Natho had not only taken possession of land but had cultivated it had rubbed salt into the festering boil on their bum. The land meant for the grazing of Mother Cow had been shredded and transferred to none

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but an untouchable? How terrible a sacrilege! What an obscene act of blasphemy! That Mother Cow would go hungry now just because of a dhe . . . was reason enough for the entire village to lose face. Stung by humiliation and goaded by a sense of vengeance, the village hadn’t allowed Natho to plough the land for three years. This year, he had to appease the village head by hiring his bullocks—never mind the exorbitant rates—to be able to plough his field. But still, he knew deep down that they would not leave him alone, oh no. On the other hand, the village head was caught in a double bind. No doubt, it was out of greed rather than anything else that he had ended up giving his pair of sturdy bullocks to Natho on rent. But now, people openly scoffed at him and very nastily at that. ‘Look! Our headman has turned a dhe . . . First, he used his good offices to get him the land. Then, he helped plough it as well. It’ll be no wonder if he decides tomorrow to personally harvest it for that fool.’ After his chance meeting with Natho that day, the village head’s visits to the western frontier became worryingly frequent. On the way to his strip, when his black, vicious gaze travelled in the direction of Natho’s undulating pearl millets, his heart would go up in flames. He would turn frantic with worry as to how to break the hex that the damned shred had put on his life. On a particularly hot day, he’d wish Natho’s crop would burn down in the baking sun. On a chilly, overcast night, he would pray for a giant thunderbolt to strike it so hard that the whole standing crop was razed to the ground. But, alas, nothing of the sort happened. Despite being the

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village head and quite powerful, he didn’t have the courage to set Natho’s field alight in broad daylight. And surely, Natho wasn’t one who’d take it lying down. Of late, he had become familiar with the nitty-gritty of litigations; in fact, he had been inciting others in the weavers’ lane to approach law courts against oppression and injustice. On the other hand, the headman had garnered the ill-will of the entire village for helping Natho in this whole bloody mess. His opponents would put the blame squarely on him, saying, ‘Bloody, there should be a limit to shamelessness. First, he helped him get the pasture. And now he says it’s government land. Why doesn’t he bequeath his own farms to Natho? And if that does not suffice, let him ask and we’ll transfer ours too.’ Searing taunts and venomous attacks sank into his heart like poisoned daggers. Restless and overwrought, he would spend every waking moment devising plans to reclaim his lost honour. One day, his nephew came over and raged against the way he had been sleeping peacefully on the matter. ‘Uncle, I can’t bear to look at the bumper millet crop in Natho’s field. The line dividing a landlord and a dhe . . . is being smudged, and you’re looking away? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Do something—and if you can’t, give us a free hand.’ ‘What are you saying? Be clear, will you?’ asked the village head in irritation. ‘Then listen carefully. Ask that Liliyo, the cowherd, to let his cattle loose in Natho’s field in the dead of night if not in broad daylight. If he comes complaining, you

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should cry foul. For god’s sake, I don’t have to teach you everything.’ His nephew’s clever ploy resonated with the desperate old man. And that night, Mother Cow had a field day.

*** The ravages committed by the cows on the first night went largely unnoticed, though Natho couldn’t dispel the lingering suspicion that something was amiss. It could be because he was obsessing over his field and millet crop a bit too much of late, he thought. But the next day when he saw a herd of five to seven cows destroying the crops under the bright morning sun, he was beside himself with rage. Heaving his long-handled axe in the air, he ran towards the rampaging herd, roaring like a lion. ‘You bloody marauders, get out! May your bulls bite the dust!’ The sudden raucous din, booming like a battle cry, startled the cows and sent them scampering towards the clearing in the hedge from where they had come. Natho saw that a wide passage had been cut into the hedge, and it did not take him a moment to figure out who was behind it. ‘Who else but that adversary of mine for my past seven lives? That blasted village head,’ he muttered. As he ran his gaze around in search of evidence, his eyes fell on Liliyo, lurking behind the hedge on the roadside. The moment Liliyo saw the herd galloping towards the clearing, he instinctively dashed in, raising his heavy, wooden staff to hit and drive the cows back to

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the field, completely unaware that Natho was charging right behind the herd. Natho made up his mind to teach Liliyo a lesson, one that he would remember for the rest of his life. But the very next moment, he saw the village head and his henchman tottering down the boundary of the adjoining field. In a flash, he figured out the whole game. He was lucky that he had come to his field a bit early that day, otherwise the entire crop would have been levelled. He thanked his lucky stars. The sight of the devilish threesome blew his fuse and he mentally prepared himself for a fight to the finish. Clutching the blade of his axe, he started thrashing the cows left and right. Shocked by the sudden downpour of stinging blows, the cows made a dash for the clearing without caring for Liliyo’s attacks and bolted along the narrow dusty road. Seeing the village head approach, Liliyo plucked up his courage and began to yell furiously. ‘Hey, bloody Natho, how dare you touch my cows? Have you lost it, damn you? Lashing at Mother Cow like that!’ Natho turned to face Liliyo, his face burning and eyes glowing like embers. ‘Fucker of your sister! Can’t you see how your cows have flattened by millets? The entire crop is wiped out.’ An expletive from an untouchable was too much for Liliyo to handle. ‘Bloody dhe . . ., you’ve the guts to hurl filthy abuses at me? Rotting fucker, a good thrashing will bring you back to your senses. You’ve been asking for it of late.’ Liliyo darted threateningly towards Natho, but as the latter heaved his axe in defence, Liliyo’s heart sank. As

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such, Natho was a bull under the hide of a man, and this episode had made him wild with rage. As if that was not bad enough, he was wielding a murderous axe now. Liliyo froze, but the steady stream of abuses continued to flow. ‘Yes, fuck, fuck, fuck you! Don’t think I keep this axe just for show. It won’t seek your permission before landing on your head. Bastard, does this field belong to your father that you let your cows in? I know your plans, okay?’ Liliyo didn’t budge an inch from where he was; his entire body shook badly and his trembling legs, like those of his botulism-ridden cows, threatened to give way. As far as he could remember, whenever bickering came to blows, Natho paid his assaulter back generously, most of the time more than what was due; if he received a couple of punches, his aggressor wouldn’t get to leave without a couple of broken bones. When Natho blew his top, he would fight with anything he could lay his hands on. And today, it was a deadly, freshly sharpened, long-handled axe. He might have hit the cows with the wooden handle of the axe, but if it came to that, he wouldn’t think twice before striking Liliyo with the blade. At once, Liliyo broke out in sweat. The cows had already disappeared from sight. However, the dust kicked up by their frenzied stampede still hung in the air over the narrow, dusty road. Liliyo stood nonplussed during the time it took the village head and his henchman to reach the spot. Without losing a moment, Natho launched into a raucous complaining mode.

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‘See bha . . . this Liliyo let . . . his cattle . . . loose in my field . . . and ruined . . .’ Panting heavily like a dog, he couldn’t finish the sentence but began to point his axe accusingly at Liliyo. In order not to dignify Natho with attention, the village head began to look pointedly in the direction of the field, then bent over to peer at the bottom of the hedge and straightened up to ask in mock seriousness, ‘Where are the cows, you mention, hanh? I can’t see any of them here.’ Immediately, he turned to Liliyo and cocked his thick eyebrows at him, ‘Oye Liliyo, where the hell are your cows? Are you people having delusions or have I gone blind?’ Unable to contain himself, he burst out laughing; the other two joined in with their hearty guffaws. Natho seethed with anger but couldn’t decide on his next step. He was pitted against a gang of bulky, stout men. But there was no going back now, he realized. An all-out war it was either way. He tightened his grip on the handle of the axe and steeled himself for any eventuality. Liliyo found his opportunity during the brief lull and began to plead with the village head, ‘Bha, I didn’t let the cattle loose in this wasteland on purpose. The herd was passing by and seeing that the government pasture was hedged in, the poor things were literally in tears. I took pity on them and allowed them to graze around the hedge. Some of their horns probably got tangled in the hedge and hence this clearing. Where is the question of an invasion in all this? You tell me bha . . . do justice in the matter.’

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Liliyo ranted away animatedly and winked at the village head as he finished. Natho realized that the stage had been set to make a scapegoat of him. But unfazed, he looked at them fiercely, hung the axe on his shoulder, undid the knot of his head cloth and began to tie it firmly round his head once again. Seeing that Natho was preparing for a fight, the village head’s heart sank. At a loss to figure out how to defuse the mounting tension, he blurted out what piqued him the most. ‘Oye Liliyo, tell me one thing. Isn’t this shred a part of a government wasteland? What’s wrong even if you put your cows to graze in it? Why, the poor animals too have a share in the wasteland, don’t they?’ The others began to snigger as the village head turned to Natho, ‘You sowed the millet here and the cows grazed on it. That’s how things balance out in this world. Get this straight in your thick head and buzz off.’ Natho felt as if bubbling lava would erupt from every single pore on his body. His bloodshot eyes began to spew flames. Shaking his head in maddening rage and disgust, he asked, ‘So that’s your tune bha, isn’t it?’ His voice cracked as if ground under his gnashed teeth. ‘You heard it, Natho. Now take off before I give you a good bashing.’ For a moment, Natho felt like heaving his axe across the old man’s frail frame and cutting him in two. He even lifted the axe from his shoulder. The village head immediately moved back and signalled the other men to give him cover. But before they could take a step forward, Natho landed a violent blow on the ground near their

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feet and spat out in a voice that boomed like thunder, ‘Damn you, my shred is government land, isn’t it? Okay, I am going. But remember, the village well is also on government land. You want to have fun? Let us have it then.’ He lifted the axe and swaggered off, swaying it from side to side, his ferocious eyes dug into the trio who looked on, their mouths agape and hearts aflutter. After what seemed to be a long while, the village head stirred, waking as though from a nightmare, wondering what Natho would do now. Surely, he was not one to keep quiet. Helpless and feeble, he kept gaping at his heavy, broad back receding in the distance. ‘Okay then . . . I’ll take your leave, bha,’ Liliyo interrupted the village head’s dark reverie and hurriedly set out in the direction of his cows. Heaving a weary sigh, the village head trudged on to follow Natho’s trail, his sidekick in tow. The dusty road ahead sloped up to a small hillock and from that junction onwards forked into two narrow pathways— one meandering through a neat row of farms leading up to the village while the other slithering straight to the taluk office. The village head saw Natho mounting the hillock. Reaching the top, he stood reflectively for a while, turning his gaze in the direction of the village, taking in with measured eyes the outskirts dotted with trees, wild shrubbery and the village well, and then climbed down the long serpentine road, disappearing like the setting sun.

***

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Well past high noon, Natho returned home, panting and sweating. He had got into a real tizzy, it seemed. He downed a potful of water in one draught and set out again. ‘What calamity has come upon the village that you are rushing out without caring for lunch?’ his wife huffed. ‘Let me inform everyone first . . . Keep the rotla and curry ready . . . I’ll be back in a minute.’ One after another, Natho visited all the houses in the weavers’ lane and briefed people about what had happened. A massive wave of fear washed through the lane, but no one so much as uttered a word, for they did not have the courage to oppose Natho; and even if somebody did, Natho was not going to pay any heed. From the day Natho snatched away two bighas of land from the jaws of authorities, people in the lane had lived in fear of serious trouble. Everyone knew the village would not take this affront lying down and due retaliation would come sooner or later. And time had proved them right. In their hearts, they resented Natho’s adventures, but in public, they had to pledge support. Natho polished off a pile of rotlas and came out of his house. Twisting his massive frame languidly, he lumbered to the sagging string cot laid out in the courtyard and plonked himself down. Peering keenly into the distance, he began to wait for his cousin, whom he had sent to the hillock for a quick inspection. The sun seemed to shine extra bright that day as if to charge Natho with golden heat and raw energy for the daredevilry that was uppermost in his mind, an invasion of a different kind. After a long while, he saw his cousin hastening towards the street. He jumped up as his cousin came up

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to him and whispered in his ears. At once, he rushed into the house and came out clutching a pitcher and coiled rope in his left hand and the long-handled axe in his right. A pall of terrifying silence stretched over the entire street as Natho stomped his way out; a veritable omen of death walked past them, but none had the courage to stop him. Hanging the loose loops of rope on his left shoulder and pounding the earth with the handle of his axe, Natho strutted right through the village, cautioning the uppercaste villagers of the catastrophe he was about to unleash on them. The news was delivered to the village head by his spies. ‘That Natho, a pitcher and rope in hand, has set foot on the village main road. Just like that . . . No cloth on head . . . No sounds of caution.’ At once, Natho’s warning that ‘the village well is also in government land’ rang out in his head. He adjusted his turban and roared, ‘Goddamn it! He’s out to pollute the village well.’ He hurried to the village square and asked a group of four to five young men to grab their sticks and scythes and follow him. ‘Come along! To the village well . . . and bump off that dhe . . .’

*** Natho reached the village well. It wore a deserted look except for a couple of women who hurriedly sneaked off when the apparition called Natho showed up. He saw a huddle of people from his street edgily watching

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him from behind the giant trunk of a banyan tree in the distance. Putting his axe down, he coolly slipped the noose of the rope around the neck of the pitcher and tightened it. Then, he swaggered up to the waist-high wall of the well and sent the pitcher tumbling inside. As the pitcher sank, he pulled it out and without bothering to take his clothes off, poured it over himself. He must have performed the ritual about three times over when he saw the village head in the distance charging towards him like a mad ox, hurling filthy abuses, with a crowd of about thirty villagers in tow. Nobody knew why, but all of them stopped at a comfortable distance from the well. The old man let out a bellow, ‘You bloody dhe . . . You’ve the audacity to pollute the village well, heh? Bastard, you’ll pay for this with your life. Hey, what are you waiting for? Knock this scoundrel down.’ The resounding holler of the village head jolted the young men out of their stupefaction. They broke into a sprint, waving their sticks and scythes in the air, followed by the village head. Natho was ready; in fact, he was waiting for this moment. He dropped the pitcher and the rope to the ground, picked up his long-handled axe, moved it in circles over his head thrice and went tearing down the dusty road towards the village head, roaring and swearing all the while. Seeing an axe-brandishing Natho charging towards them like a tornado, the gang stopped in their tracks and without a second thought, turned tail. The village head too took to his heels. Scuttling to a safe distance, the pack of retreaters relaxed their astonished sphincters and turned around to see where their tormentor was. Natho had called off the chase and, standing like a

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towering palm, he beckoned them with an insolent wave of his hand. ‘Come on, you buggers. Today you’ll have it from Natho . . .’ The village head’s face flushed with rage at such public humiliation. The group of villagers behind him began to hoot and holler. That Natho would be bumped off was certain, but not before sending a couple of them to their graves. So, they just barked away, digging their heels into the burning sand. Finally, unable to take this flagrant exhibition of cowardice anymore, the village head thundered, ‘Give me the bill hook, you sissies . . .’ Trembling from head to toe, he flew into a mad rage, snatched the stick from the hands of a callow boy and hared off. This act of bravery animated the crowd behind him, and they began to root for him with shouts of ‘Kill him! Knock him down!’ A great hue and cry rose. Natho was ready, raring to strike his nemesis down in one fell swoop. But before the duel began, a commanding voice rang out. ‘Freeze!’ A gunshot went rending the sky. ‘Anybody who makes a move goes down. Hands up!’ A police inspector on horseback cantered in from the direction of the hillock, the pistol in his hand pointing at the sky. Two constables on foot flanked him, their rifles dancing on their backs as they struggled to keep pace with the horse. At the sight of the inspector, the village head froze; he stood like a contorted statue. The crowd of villagers fell silent too. The inspector reached the well and growled, ‘What’s going on here? Don’t you know the law?’

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The village head dropped the stick and began to plead with the inspector who raised his eyebrows at the constables. Quick to execute the order, they trained their guns on the crowd, and everybody ran for their life. The inspector looked sternly at the village head to suggest that he too should leave. Getting the silent message, the village head gave Natho a final, filthy look and set off, grumbling under his breath, ‘Bloody dhe . . . Never mind, all he could do was wash himself, that too outside the well. He didn’t fetch water home or drink it, and the well can’t be polluted just by an untouchable’s bathing, oh no.’

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ild uproar engulfed the entire village. The news spread like wildfire. ‘A poisonous snake has touched13 Shivalo, the son of Viro, the scavenger.’ The scavenger street, located on the eastern hillock, was far away from the outskirts of the village. But as the news floated in, hordes of people scurried their way to the hill, like red ants to an anthill. A flood of nosy parkers gushed out of their caste streets and community quarters raising urgent queries and grave concerns. Magan, the drumbeater, who was heading home after having performed at the welcome procession of Mother Goddess, heard the news and immediately turned around to make for the eastern hillock. On the way up, he hurriedly tuned his oversized drum—tugging at a clip here, tightening a string there—and as soon as he reached the base of the hillock, he began to strike his convex drumstick, fashioned from wild native wood, on the inky eye of the drum. The resounding slap-bang drummed up quite a frenzy amongst men, women and kids who were trudging their way up the hill. Today, like no other day, 40

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Viro and his son were the talk of the town, thanks to the touch of a snake, a misfortune of course, but not unlike their daily lot. ‘The scavenger street is so far away from the village; almost in the middle of the forest, if you will. What would touch the poor kid if not a snake? Shucks, fate is so harsh on the bhan . . .’ ‘This is all a play of karma. Or else why would they even be born as scavengers? Whatever it is, that’s what our conventions mandate; they can’t be allowed to put up residence inside the village, can they? They are better off where they are. That his son got bitten is sad enough. But don’t our people get stung by venomous reptiles on our farms? May Goga, the cobra-god, bless all.’ ‘All that is fine. But how did this happen?’ ‘I don’t know. We will come to know once we reach there. But people say, the kid was playing in the backyard, and god knows why but he thrust his hand in the hedge, and the cobra lying there in ambush snapped.’ ‘Whatever it is, but if something happens to the kid, Viro will die of grief. The boy was born of Holy Mother’s blessings . . . that too after years of entreaties and fasts . . . God forbid.’ Suddenly, the entire village began to sympathize with Viro. A few even went out of their way to put on record their approval for the way Viro conducted himself in the village; with selfless devotion and a sense of obligation, quite uncharacteristic of a scavenger. ‘He may be a scavenger, but he is righteous, no one can deny it. He has never said no to any work, be it

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drumming rain or gaining heat. That much due has to be given to the poor devil.’ ‘Ask him for an errand, even if it’s as far as fifteen kilometres away, and he would set aside his personal work to run it. Don’t they say, it is always the righteous whose house gets burgled? Poor man!’ ‘You said it, brother. He is pure gold. Convoluted are the ways of the world in the era of Kali.’ Judging Viro by their personal experience or received wisdom, the village folks headed for the eastern hillock. The scavenger street was extremely small and sparsely populated. On second thought, it wouldn’t qualify for the designation of a ‘street’ at all, just a huddle of two huts with tightly packed mud walls facing the east. In lieu of a door, two makeshift shutters, forged out of twigs, reed and bamboo stalks, hinged precariously from the clay wall. Sloping roofs were set with broken, straggly roof tiles of native make without anything that may pass for rafters. Opposite the stumpy pair, in some distance, sat a third squat hut in a condition no better except that its door faced the west. Right in the centre of the narrow triangle drawn by the three huts towered a hoary neem tree planted by Viro’s forefathers, its form sprawling and serene. On the winding dirt tracks connecting the huts squatted four clay shrines for various presiding deities like Mother Sikotar and other folk gods. The bang and boom of the drum wafted the news as far as the quarters of the Rabaris, a community of cattle-keepers and cowherds. Mohan Rabari was stretched, like a slothful boa, out on a string cot laid under a neem tree in the courtyard of his house. The moment he heard about the touch of

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snake, he sat bolt upright. The news seemed to give him a real thrill, so much so that the bushy mass of curly hair on his body stood up. Rolling his eyes like a tantric performing rituals in a crematorium, he began to tremble as if he was possessed. Known in the region as the most pious and powerful devotee of Lord Goga, Mohan also doubled up as a witch doctor when the situation demanded. However, primarily he had been a kind of a ritual-performer-in-chief to the entire village, such that the welcome procession of Mother Goddess would not budge an inch until he green-flagged it. Lord Goga was at his beck and call, ready to possess him at will. Like Magan, he too had returned home when Mother’s procession was halfway through. Bounding out of the cot, he re-tied the dhoti around his waist and airlocked it by sucking his stomach in and out in quick succession. With the heavy downward movement of his flat palm, he pressed the accordion pleats in his dhoti. Then, he adjusted his cow-herd turban a bit and let its flowing ends loose on his shoulders. In one powerful leap, he grabbed hold of a couple of tender neem branches and snapped them off the bigger bough with a violent jerk. Peeling off a handful of leaves, he stuffed them in his mouth and stood there chomping away ravenously. After a while, he spat out a green paste. Suddenly, his body began to shake violently. Swaying like a drunkard and hooting like a devil, he ran in the direction of the scavenger street. On seeing him stomping up the hill, the gossip of villagers changed course. ‘See, there comes Mohan. He can cure anyone with the power of his incantations. In no time will the venom

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course its way back and drip out of the kid’s body. It’s a matter of seconds now. One dirty look of his and a flying sparrow will come crashing down. What good is a stray reptile before him?’ ‘Lord Goga is at his beck and call, you know. Let him give one mighty roar and the snake would come floating, writhing through the air, dragged by the sheer power of his spell. No hole is deep enough for it to hide now.’ Somebody raised an objection to the truth of the narrative. ‘Have you ever seen it happen with your own eyes? Or are you just taking us for a ride?’ ‘Not with my own eyes, of course. But the village swears by his secret powers, doesn’t it? Even people from neighbouring villages invite him to neutralize a snakebite. Don’t you know that?’ ‘There is some merit in what he says, brother. If he sucks the venom out of the body, the kid will jump up to life in a jiffy.’ Someone else reaffirmed his faith in the largess of Lord Goga. ‘Lord Goga will fly down Viro’s courtyard? What luck! After all these years, we will get to have a darshan of the cobra-god.’ A quaking Mohan wove his way through the teeming multitude at the mouth of the scavenger street, moving the neem branches he held aloft in wide circles and hollering crazily, ‘Give me way . . . Move . . . Move . . . Give me way.’ Once he reached the edge of Viro’s courtyard, he stopped dead in his tracks. The occult possession

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drained out of him when he realized that in a bid to enact an intense possession, it had completely slipped his mind that he was stepping into a scavenger’s courtyard. Bitter resentment, nay, sheer disdain surged within him. Clueless as to what to do next, he kept gaping at Magan who was beating his drum standing right in the middle of the courtyard. Waving the neem branches in both his hands, he signalled to Magan to make way for him. Magan curled up his lips and moved away in a gait signifying calculated spite and a couldn’t-care-less affront. Mohan started shaking violently as he entered the courtyard and sat down cross-legged. Viro was already squatting on the ground and urging Mohan with folded hands to save his son. His wife too came out of the hut and straightaway fell at Mohan’s feet without uttering a word. The veil drawn up to her chin covered her face, but its hem, which had gone all wet with her tears, gave away the enormity of her grief. ‘Lord Goga! O great Shesha! You are my last refuge! Please save my Shivalo. Take him under your wing. You lift the earth on your cosmic hood. Now, turn around, O lord, and restore my son to his mother’s lap.’ Words of entreaties streaming out of Viro’s mouth seemed to keep pace with the copious tears running down his cheeks. The skin on his face was the colour of the dry black soil of a freshly ploughed field, and the streams of tears looked like shiny black cobras slithering through its furrows. His wife stood by him, her folded hands jerking intermittently with each racking sob. A deathly silence, bulging with deep grief, hung heavy in the air. A clutch of women came out of the hut, offered obeisance to the

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rocking witch doctor and rushed back inside to squat around Shivalo’s body as if to form a tight security ring. The kid’s pigmentation was changing slowly, and he had started frothing at the mouth. Greenish bubbles fizzed over a slim stream of saliva gushing from the right corner of his lips. Growing increasingly alarmed at the sight of every fresh outpouring, the women wiped the froth with the loose ends of their saris and exchanged apprehensive glances. Still warm, Shivalo’s tiny frame twisted and trembled spasmodically. That Mohan had turned up on his own gave strength to Viro’s heart. He fervently hoped that his son would be saved now. Emboldened by this blazing hope, he pleaded with Mohan in a voice choked with emotion, his folded hands held close to his chest as if to keep his heart from bursting. ‘If Goga approves, may I bring my son out and lay him down here in the courtyard? I have kept him indoors to ward off evil eyes. And we have made a vow to offer coconut and ghee to Lord Goga if his life is spared. Shall I get you a glass of water to wash your mouth . . . ?’ Words got stuck in Viro’s throat. His tongue, like a snake in hibernation, suddenly lost all movement. His eyes began to drip with renewed vigour. Mohan, who kept looking absent-mindedly in the distance all the while, suddenly figured out what Viro was hinting at and snapped, ‘No . . . no . . . no. Do not change his location. I do not have orders from the cobra-god. I will suck up the venom in his body from here. Don’t . . . don’t bother . . . I don’t want water.’

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Without bothering to complete his staccato, selfconscious response, he jumped up and began to thrash the neem branches on the ground in sync with loud heehawing and frenzied leaping. The murderous cacophony kicked up by Mohan galvanized Magan into a frenetic bout of drumbeating. The theatre of horror kept the onlookers awestruck. After a while, Mohan stopped. Holding up the branches in the direction of Viro’s hut, he stamped his right foot five times on the ground to ward off the evil hovering over Viro’s son. Fear of pollution drove him to perform all rituals from a safe distance. He did not so much as walk up to the hut to run neem branches over it; sucking venom with his mouth was out of question. Once again, he stuffed a handful of neem leaves in his mouth and began to champ at them noisily. Then sticking the right thumb in his mouth and clenching his fist except for the pinky which pointed towards Viro’s hut, he began to suck at his thumb animatedly. Every few seconds, he hocked a green, slimy loogie, much to the surprise and admiration of the people around. The thick jets of spittle that he sprayed out looked like flying green snakes. ‘Did you see that? How he is sucking the venom without even touching the bite! All Goga’s grace! The saliva has taken the hew of the venom. In no time will the kid come out jumping and playing, just watch,’ a particularly devout old man from the crowd obliged with an explanation. Encouraged by this, another spectator called out ‘Victory to Lord Goga’, and the crowd joined in with roars of ‘Victory’. Such resounding collective rooting

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was enough to egg Mohan on. He got into his element and took his performance a notch up, shaking with extraordinary zest and spitting green juice in blasting blows. On the other hand, relentless drumbeating had tired Magan out, so he ran a searching glance over the crowd to spot someone who could replace him. His uncle Bhemo was standing in the distance. Magan beckoned him with impatient nods of his head and asked him loudly as he reached within earshot: ‘I’ve been playing for quite a while, uncle. I am tired now and thirsty too. Water from a scavenger’s house is green venom, you know. I’ll go home, have something to drink and smoke and be back soon.’ He transferred the booming drum to his uncle, wiped his face and neck with his headgear and cagily wriggled his way, like a branded krait, through the crowd lest his touch should defile the upper caste onlookers. Viro hurried inside the hut to check if Mohan’s remote venom-sucking had any effect on his son’s condition. Shivalo’s condition was critical and his life seemed to dwindle fast. He ran out of the hut, panting like a wild animal cornered by its hunter, determined to tell Mohan upfront, ‘Why don’t you suck the venom right from the sting, the way you did when Somo’s son was bitten? Do it . . . or else?’ But he lost nerve and swallowed the blind rage that had slithered up from within him, hissing and raring to strike. His mind went blank as he kept staring at the quack with hardened eyes. But the very next moment, he checked the expressions on his face and wore a sheepish, pleading look. Fear like a boa had coiled around his heart, fear

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that if Lord Goga got a whiff of the irreverence surging within him, he will have to wash his hands of his son. Further, if he put on a piteous, wretched look, intense enough to moisten Mohan’s heart, he might oblige. The atmosphere inside the hut was getting increasingly sombre. Eerie silence and tearing grief reigned all around, punctuated only by Shivalo’s moans that erupted every now and then. It seemed as if his wife’s ceaseless muted weeping, laced with the sobs of other women, strained to shield the flickering flame of Shivalo’s life. But the infernal din of slap-bang and chaotic hubbub outside completely devoured those wisps of sorrow like a hungry python. The crowd was watching the spectacle with bated breath, taken up by the anxiety about what would happen next. Viro hurried inside the hut again and peered at his son’s face. His eyes were closed, his wheatish complexion had assumed a shade of dark and he was still foaming at the mouth. Viro turned away his watery eyes in utter despair. How he loved his son! The lap of his wife was filled years after his marriage, thanks to the grace of Goga. And he kept a constant, close watch on his son’s whereabouts, didn’t he? Most of the time, Shivalo would be found riding his father’s shoulders. Today, god knows what took him and he left him alone, just for a while. Caught in the whirlpool of remorse, he was sinking in memories when a wild furore rose outside. Somebody cried, ‘A mad cow has run amok, and it is coming this way. Stay away.’ Hearing about the cow, everybody froze for a second, then began to scurry about looking for a safe location.

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Mohan’s convulsions came to an instant halt. Bhemo missed his beats, and all the suspense and excitement kicked up by the news of the snakebite fizzled out. ‘Move man . . . Move.’ ‘Somebody drive it away. Hey! Run . . . Run or it’ll hitch you up by its horns and fling you away.’ ‘Watch out, goddamn it . . . climb the tree instead.’ Viro came out of the hut and his eyes fell on a dazed Mohan. The pallor on his face and the commotion transported him to the time when Mohan’s cow had fallen into the tanner’s well. He saw himself racing to the spot, Shivalo astride on his shoulders. The entire village had flooded to the site in chattering hordes. He heard a bellow of rage shooting from the crowd. ‘Look, what asses all of you are! No one could think of carrying ropes, staffs or something like that. Tell me how you propose to pull the cow out? With your hands, I guess. And for god’s sake, send for that Magan immediately. Tell him to bring his drum along as a cow has to be pulled out of the well.’ ‘And if he asks whose well it is?’ asked a self-styled emissary. ‘Why do you ask silly questions? As if you do not know. Tell him it is the tanner’s well and it’s pretty deep at that. He should come straight to the wasteland. And ask him to make haste; it’s a sacred cause . . . an occasion to amass holy merit.’ Just then, echoes of drum roll, floating in from the direction of the wasteland, were heard. People slaving in farms followed the acoustic trail of Magan, delighted at the prospect of a public spectacle, one capable of giving

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a real buzz. In a trice, an otherwise deserted wasteland was transformed into the site of a local fair. People from the village and forest came in droves to see the rescue operation. The bedlam kicked up by the bawling crowd and rumbling drumbeat had scared the cow no end. Resultantly, it had been jumping and kicking with its hindlegs every now and then; its tail would swish with the force of a whiplash and its pointed horns would dig into the dusty walls of the well. The well had gone completely dry due to the parching summer heat and a year of famine. Dense clouds of dust engulfed the whole well. However, to the crowd concerned with the cow’s wellbeing, this was a welcome sign indicating that the cow had not sustained any serious injury. Its unrelenting plaintive cry was perhaps due more to the fright at the rumble and ruckus outside than the hurt. Clutches of people, especially those who were held in awe, in the village would come up to the edge of the well, peep inside, shake their heads in a mix of disbelief and despair and shuffle off to hold consultation with their equally downhearted peers. Everyone was at a loss to think up how the cow could be rescued from the depths of the well all in one piece. The cow was getting increasingly restless, just like the crowd outside. Finally, Anarji stepped forward with his characteristic swagger, suggesting to everybody around that he had deigned to take charge of the operation. Reaching the mouth of the well, he shouted at a group of youngsters who were peering in out of curiosity and juvenile mirth, ‘You prickheads! Stay away from the well. You think your ancestors have buried a treasure trove there? Can’t you

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see the poor cow gets scared seeing scarecrows like you? And as if that is not enough, you’re bent on dirtying the water with the dust and clods of earth that you manage to drop in with your monkey tricks.’ ‘If not ours, your ancestors certainly had buried a fortune there, it seems. Here . . . We moved away. Now you dig it out. Have you got permanent rights to the bedrooms of the entire village that you are bossing around like this?’ someone from the crowd behind his back hurled a quick retort in a way that left everyone in splits. ‘Who’s that bastard? Come out and face me if you’ve guts, you fucker,’ Anarji flew into a lion rage. ‘Now cool down, darbar. You should not take a teenager’s mischief seriously. Saving Mother Cow is our priority now. Picking a fight won’t get us anywhere,’ someone tried to reason with Anarji obsequiously. ‘Bloody, what do they think? Their smartasses are itching for a good battering, it seems,’ Anarji snapped. It took extra doses of cajoling and ego-massaging to bring Anarji around. The boom of drum roll had filled the air. The entire Rabari enclave had rallied around Mohan in his bad moment and accompanied him to the well, wild with worry about how to save the cow, the only source of Mohan’s livelihood. Just then, Anarji bellowed a command. ‘Now, stop gawking at each other’s faces like that. Go and bring three to four ropes, sturdy to boot. I hear that Gokal has recently bought new ones. The cow will have to be fastened with ropes and lifted out.’ Coils of brand-new, off-white ropes, looking like albinos, were brought in a jiffy, but the question

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remained. Who will get into the cavernous well and risk his life? Everyone had been mouthing excuses and trying to melt into the crowd just when Mohan sighted Viro, who with his son astride his shoulders, stood out like a giraffe. ‘Hey, brother Viro is here. No one in the village can measure up to him when it comes to the grit of heart. You do the honour, brother. Mother Cow will not so much as touch you, you’ll be blessed by her instead. Please brother . . .’ Mohan’s voice, otherwise a throaty roar, was reduced to a feeble bleat. Viro didn’t want to step into the well, not a whit. However, the thought of saving Mother Cow mellowed him down. But he qualified, ‘I don’t have a problem getting in, but who’ll look after my son? I’ve never left him alone, you see. He would cry his heart out if I’m not around.’ ‘Don’t worry. I am here. I’ll look after him . . .’ Before finishing what sounded like an assurance, Mohan lifted Shivalo from Viro’s shoulders, flashing an unctuous smile, and sat him up astride his. Nobody in his right mind would have agreed to enter the well, a veritable gorge of an anaconda, and this one had a scared cow in it. Viro felt like the proverbial snake, who having caught a shrewmouse could neither swallow it nor set it free; the former would amount to suicide, and the latter would entail blindness. With a bad taste in his mouth, he waved at Magan to stop the drumroll. Somebody flung one of the thick ropes into the well and Viro rappelled down the steep clay wall like a skilled canyoner. As general commotion and drumroll stopped, the cow too

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had quietened down. With utmost care and caution, Viro tied two ropes, each around the girth of the cow’s rib and sirloin. Then, he fastened the loose ends of all the four ropes round his waist and called out. At once, he got lifted by the same rope that had dropped him in. Reaching out, he quickly untied the four ropes and asked a group of young men who were staring at him expectantly for orders. ‘Now hold these ropes tight and pull them in sync at a call of three. See that there is complete coordination as you tug at the ropes . . . or else, Mother Cow will be hurt. In that case, the sin will be heaped on your heads, not mine.’ As soon as he finished with his instructions, he cocked his eyebrows at Magan suggesting that the drum roll should go off again. Shivalo was already getting restive, he saw. Without wasting a moment, he lifted Shivalo from Mohan’s shoulders and walked off, as pleased with himself as the cheerful beats of the drum rumbling behind him. The very next moment, the scene being enacted in his mind changed, and he saw himself blowing a trumpet standing in the courtyard of Somo’s house with Shivalo standing by his side. Mohan’s mouth was clamped fast onto the snakebite on the leg of Somo’s son. His cheeks caved in and out rhythmically as he sucked the venom from his body. Then Mohan uttered the words his ears had so desperately craved to hear, ‘Give me the peacock’s feather from my bag.’ Mohan folded the long twig of the peacock’s feather into a loop and said, ‘There you go. Slip this bracelet on

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the right hand of the boy. Lord Cobra will bless him. Say it aloud with me, “Victory to Goga!”’ In a visual hallucination, Viro saw Mohan slipping the protective bangle around Shivalo’s wrist and out of sheer joy, he called out, ‘Victory be to Lord Goga!’ Clueless about the goings-on, the crowd followed suit. The sky-rending invocation to Lord Goga jolted Viro out of his reverie. The mad cow was nowhere in sight. Bhemo was still beating his drum. He cast an apprehensive look at the door of his hut, which was slowly being swallowed by a giant anaconda of gathering darkness. Before he could figure out anything, a black, funereal cry rose from the hut and pierced his heart. ‘O, my dear son! Why did you leave me? . . . O my life is laid waste. What will I do without you?’ Everything froze. Magan’s hand, held out for taking the drumsticks from his uncle Bhemo, froze in midair like a hooded cobra poised for striking. Mohan’s convulsions stilled. The undulating crowd iced over. The bubble of time arching over the eastern hill held its breath. Only the echoes of the black cry seemed to loom over the courtyard. Viro flopped down languidly holding his head in his hands. The gorge rising in him struggled to blast out of his choked throat. But to no avail. He lay motionless for a few interminable seconds, as lifeless as Shivalo, touched as if by an invisible, venomous cobra. The crowd began to slowly shuffle its way down the hill. Mohan threw the neem branches on the ground, curled up his lip and edged away as if from a den of evil. The muffled hubbub startled Viro out of his grief-stricken stupor. He saw Mohan tiptoeing out of the courtyard.

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His eyes glinted with murderous rage. He shot up and stretched out his arms a couple of times as if to grab Mohan by the neck and squeeze the life out of him. He wanted to howl at the top of his voice, but his throat seemed to have been gripped by a giant vice, the squeeze of a boa constrictor. Words eluded him. A sense of selfdisgust washed over him. He ground his teeth, worked up a spitball in his mouth and went at him full blast, ‘Aak . . . thoo . . . thoo . . . thooo.’ And then he burst into bitter tears.

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he sun rose to find the entire street wearing a deserted look; everybody had been out on their daily drudge of threshing and winnowing wheat grains on the farms of landlords. As the battered mid-winter sun rose, its tender light streamed softly into his house. Columns of sunlight, filtering in from chinks and holes in the russet, countrymade roof tiles, drew intricate, ever-changing patterns on clay-bedaubed walls. Khodo, the stumpleg, was lying on a slightly unhinged cot, strung with coir ropes, his head propped on a cylindrical dirty pillow and eyes firmly closed. However, every few seconds, he tossed and turned, this way and that, like a restless spirit. After a while, tired by the effort of keeping his eyes shut, he opened them and at once saw the wooden beam that supported the roof of the house. From it hung the auspicious moliyo that her mother had worn like a headband on the day of her wedding. However, today it looked like a black, steely a horseshoe with strings on its ends. He kept staring at it in a daze. The moliyo had been hanging there from the day his mother came over to her in-laws’ after marriage. Years 57

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of hanging from the beam, unattended and unnoticed, had made it gather so much dust, cobwebs and grime that it had begun to look like a sturdy black bow. The colourful tassels attached to the strings on both ends had gone sooty and looked like flowers of pitch-black, permanent homes to flies equally black, if not more. As daylight thickened and penetrated the far corners of the house, the flies began to buzz around the tassels. The way they took short flights away from their abodes and landed back, almost with depressing regularity, made Khodo livid. Lying in the same position in the rickety cot, he began to flail his hands in the air to drive them away, only to give up eventually as the flies remained indifferent to his exertions. Once again, his eyes got riveted to the cross beam and the roof. Why would they have hung the moliyo like that? He blinked in wonder, and a vision of a woman hanging down from the beam, her flaccid hands dangling by her side and a giant moliyo tied across her face like a murderous shrink-wrap, flashed before his eyes. Scared stiff, he squeezed his eyes shut. Everything vanished. ‘Your mother had killed herself . . . hanging from the beam . . .’ Words fluttered like a flock of pigeons in his head. He couldn’t dare to recall all of it. Streams of sweat washed all over his body. Startled as if out of a nightmare, he suddenly opened his eyes. The moliyo was shrivelling gradually, its murderous noose tightening its crushing grip around his neck. Unable to breathe, he sat up in his cot, restless and flushed. ‘I escaped . . . I could escape . . . I am telling you, O Punjo, the tinder, run away. These tentus, bloody

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darbars, will not spare you. O whelp of my mother-inlaw, trust me . . .’ Then, he began to look around with dilated eyes as if to check if there was anyone around who could have overheard him. His terrified gaze flitted across the room to the bamboo stick leaning against the wall in a corner, to the gaping mouth of the gutted fireplace, to a broken wooden stand next to it and back to the moliyo; all of them seemed to look back at him in horror. He continued to mutter. ‘Tell me, Punjo. You locked the door with a chain from the outside, didn’t you? It was you and no one else.’ Again, his eyes travelled in the direction of the stick, and he froze. At once, he went down and began to writhe as if under a hail of deadly stickblows. His father’s bloodied face, tossing and twitching in excruciating pain, swam before his eyes. ‘O dear me . . . Father . . .’ he wanted to cry out but buried his face in the pillow instead and began to breathe like bellows. After a while, he mumbled, ‘I escaped, didn’t I? I gave those bastards a slip.’ He began to drink in the moon-like patterns being formed on the wall, those brilliant, spectacular circles at the end of the sticks of sunlight, hurled right through the roof. Moons, so full of light and symmetry. But the very next moment, he got startled, once again. ‘Who has thrust these white knives into the wall?’ A couple of moons swam on his wavy quilt as well. He flinched in horror, dithered for a while and then with utmost caution, stretched his hand out to touch them. And the moons slipped onto his hand.

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‘Damn it, this is nothing but moonlight . . .’ Relieved, he drew his hand back and the moons slipped away. The sight of the slinking moons reminded him of Punjo. ‘Where’s Punjo?’ He got up from the cot, opened the door and came out. Finding nobody in the street, he began to cast flitting, confused glances around, first in the direction of the village, then towards the farms. Far away from the entrance of the street ran a meandering road to the farms. He saw a man from the Baraiya caste in the distance heading towards the farm and Punjo making for the untouchable street down the same road with a small metal pot in hand. At once, he broke into a frantic sprint, shouting out warnings, ‘Run, Punjo, run! I’m telling you. That tentu will chop you into pieces. Run away . . .’ The fiendish bawling and the crazed expression on his face sent a chill down Punjo’s spine for a moment. ‘What happened Khodo? Is everything all right?’ he enquired, agitation written all over his face, but then he got the hang of it, ‘Oh . . . You have got back to it again, haven’t you? Your pet prattles! Nobody is going to kill me. Calm down now. Let’s go back to the street.’ ‘Yes, hurry up, Punjo. Let’s go.’ Grabbing his hand firmly, Khodo began to pull Punjo towards the street while his eyes remained riveted on the back of the Kshatriya man. ‘I am coming. Don’t pull me, you idiot.’ ‘You saw that? That bloody tentu was heading straight for us with a sword in his hand. I swear by god. Hurry up, let’s go . . .’

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He kept towing Punjo like a child pulling his father towards a confectionary shop.

*** When Narsinh saw Khodo squatting by the farm-hedge to relieve himself, he hollered, ‘You bloody fucker. Have you taken leave of your senses or what? What the hell are you doing there? You think this farm belongs to your father that you can pollute it at will?’ He took a dry clod of earth and hurled it with all his might at Khodo. The shot missed its target by a foot but caught the metal water pot and sent it on a tumble tour leaving behind a trail of water. In a panic, Khodo sprang to his feet. Narsinh was hurling abuses like a maniac. Grabbing the pot with one hand, hitching his pyjamas with another and fastening them clumsily, Khodo hared off down the dusty road towards the street. Echoes of abuses and threats eddied up behind him, ‘Bloody dhe . . ., if you’re sighted anywhere around this place again, I’ll strip you first and then hang you upside down from a Banyan tree . . . and burn dry chillies below.’ The threat, a very real threat, charged Khodo’s feet with hysterical speed. Upon reaching home, he shut the door fast behind him. The pounding of his frail heart seemed to chant the refrain of ‘burn dry chillies below’. As he stood quaking with fear, he realized that he had not washed his arse. The monstrous crossbeam and the moliyo lolling out like a black tongue looked like a giant jaw of a devil, ready to snap at him. The swarm

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of flies, buzzing around the tassels, conjured up for him the mustachioed face of Narsinh. He grabbed the stick stationed in the corner and began to aim blows at the flies. The hail of frantic blows landed on the wall, the floor and the door. A sudden wham-bam next door gave Rami shivers. Shaking with awful fright, she ran out in the courtyard of her house yelling, ‘Khodbhai . . . O Khodbhai . . . Are you alright? What is going on? What are you up to now? Slow down, damn you . . . Enough is enough. Why not show your mettle in the village square instead? No point blasting these crumbling walls, you crackpot.’ Chastened by Rami’s tongue-lashing, Khodo froze to the spot. He was out of breath. Disgusted by the reflux of bitterness and self-pity, he threw the stick in the corner and opened the door. Rami was standing right in front of him. His face fell. He had not had any water since his return from the farm. Innocent words tripped off his mouth, ‘Sister, will you give me some water?’ Rami thrust the metal pot she had already brought along into Khodo’s hands and hurried back, awash with a sense of restlessness. The disquiet in her heart set off a train of painful thoughts and bitter memories. This Khodbhai is the only child of his parents. His poor mother hanged herself for the fear of losing her honour and his father was burnt alive. And this half-wit is bent upon busting the walls of his house. What a cruel play of destiny! But why blame him when the entire village has lost its spine. O dear me, the life of an outcaste is nothing but a load of crap. When that village head’s son got it on with Jivi in her house in broad daylight,

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bloody Punjo—may he be damned—couldn’t take it; the shoes lying on the veranda, the closed door and all that. And so, he fastened the chained hasp on the door to the staple plated on its frame and locked the door from the outside. After half an hour, all we could hear in the street were wild banging on the door and an avalanche of filthy abuses, ‘Bloody whelps of my mother-in-law! Who locked the door from outside? Come out and face me if you are the seed of one father. I’ll set that bastard right. Bloody seducers of your mothers, I am a darbar. I may visit anybody’s house. Who the hell are you to stop me?’ Nobody in the street had the courage to utter even a single word against this appalling custom, the rapes of women in the untouchable street in broad daylight and with such impunity. Next day, it was the village head himself. He stomped in, flung sleazy abuses at people in the street and walked away unchallenged. Nobody could so much as moan in protest. Only Khodo kept beating his head against the walls of his house out of sheer helplessness and deep shame. Sometimes Punjo, Rami’s husband, would vent his spleen on the subject. But when the entire street had lost tongue . . . After his parents died, Punjo and Rami had looked after Khodo. They had stood by him in times, good and bad. While going home from Khodo’s house, Rami threw a spiteful, dirty look at Jivi’s house. A pair of fancy shoes were lying in the veranda and the door was shut fast. Rami slapped her forehead in disgust, spat out a mouthful and hurried to her house.

***

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Never in his lifetime had Khodo stepped out in the blazing afternoon sun, but today he was seen running, as if for his life, to the untouchable street from the direction of the farms. Panting, drenched in sweat, he halted for a moment at the frilled entrance of the street. Casting a few sleuthhound glances here and there, he slinked into an old, crumbling house on the right and launched into his pet diatribe, ‘Punjo, don’t you ignore me. Scram, you bastard! Run away to the city . . . Those tentus with scythes on shoulders will reach here in no time . . . and make mincemeat of you. A couple of swipes will finish you. That bloody tentu, O dear me, with big, bloodshot eyes and a sword in hand!’ Suddenly, he stilled. And as if a sword had slipped into his hand from somewhere, he launched into frenetic sword dance; one of his clenched fists swayed in air as the other stayed pinned behind his back. He jumped and lunged, dealing deadly sword-swipes all around in the decrepit house. Just then, a cat jumped down from the roof of a neighbouring house, rattling a tile. It struck terror in Khodo’s heart. Startled, he froze to the spot. As he saw the cat passing by, he grimaced at it and began to bluster, ‘There he comes . . . I am telling you Punjo . . . Buzz off.’ But before long, his blabber dwindled into a loud, sorrowful wail. ‘They came for my father first and then my mother. And I kept watching everything, couldn’t raise a finger. What could I have done? Run away, now it’s your turn . . . I am telling you, Punjo . . . Believe me.’ And as if caught under the rain of sticks and scythes, he began to parry blows flinging his hands up in the air

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and tossing his legs as if rats had scuttled up his pants. If he doubled over in pain now, the very next moment, he straightened up to fight it out with his invisible assaulters. The more he tried to crush the fear lurking in his heart, the more it reared its head and bared its sharp fangs. Just when he had got in the thick of his antics, he lost balance and keeled over. ‘Help . . . Help . . . Run, folks, run . . . Save my Punjo . . . There, he slaughtered him.’ Letting out a loud wail, he went into hysterics. On hearing him whine, the children in the street, Rami and a couple of other women rushed out of their houses and rallied round him. Khodo kept gawping at Rami with bulging eyes. Just as the string of a tightly strung bow, when drawn and released, vibrates, his body tautened up and went into violent convulsions. His breaths began to come in short, rapid gasps. Seeing his pathetic, overwrought condition, Rami began to curse the past seven generations in Jivi’s lineage. She squatted by his side and started railing. ‘Bloody slattern. May she be ruined. If her backside burns so much, why doesn’t she thrust logs into it? Why does she create troubles for this poor boy?’ ‘Hey, lower your voice. If somebody heard this stuff, he’d snitch on her husband. And that would brew a fresh trouble,’ a woman warned Rami in a voice filled with anxiety and fear. Just when the warning seemed to have drilled some sense into Rami’s head, a shrill cry rang out, ‘Who is that slut, claiming to be sati Sita’s sister?’ Jivi stormed out of her house, indignant and outraged. Without paying

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attention to her, everybody purposely busied themselves in the fuss of helping Khodo to sit up. Khodo’s body had become stiff like a corpse. He could be made to sit up only after tiring bouts of pulling and pushing. ‘In whose courtyard do we not see shoes these days? Show me a single house. If you are so brave, why do not you ask your husbands to challenge these rapists? I will worship you for the rest of my life. Why, you do not have the guts, do you?’ Done with her tirade, Jivi sat on her haunches in the courtyard and began to weep loudly, customarily blaming her lot in a singsong lament, while wiping her dripping eyes with the loose end of her sari. ‘This village is impotent. O dear me! Which scheming enemy of mine threw me into this hell . . . flung me into this deep, dark well?’ Then as if goaded by a fresh surge of outrage, she sprang to her feet, restoring the loose end of her sari to its original state, that of a half-unfurled giant Japanese fan. ‘This bloody sissy asks Punjo to run away all the time. Why, slit a darbar’s neck instead! You do not have kids or family to worry about if you are killed in the bargain? Do something like that and you will live up to your brave father’s name. And if you cannot, just keep lying with your face thrust into your backside. Don’t make so much fuss, understood? Slay somebody, damn you. But why am I pinning hopes on this ass whose blood didn’t boil even when his own parents were butchered?’ Jivi harangued Khodo mercilessly and stomped back to her house. Her acid words burnt a hole into his ears. The ring of her challenge reverberated in his head. He rose

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to his feet. Blood coursing in his veins rushed to his eyes; he went insane. Without uttering a word, he ran towards his house, went inside and banged the door shut behind him. His eyes fell on the stick lying in the corner, but today he did not quake, not a whit. The stick, the moliyo and the door swam before him like a dream. Holding his head in his hands and lumbering his body, flushed with sweat, up to the cot, he flopped down.

*** The door Khodo had shut on the street, the street that trembled in the settling cold, did not open even after eventide. Rami came over carrying his dinner on a large aluminium plate and knocked at the door twice but to no avail. ‘Khodobhai! I have placed rotlas and kadhi here, here in the alcove. Do eat them. Otherwise, you will go straight to heaven to accompany your parents . . .’ Pleased with herself for making a smart dig, she kept standing there for a while waiting for a response. When none came, she realized that her barb had fallen flat. ‘Bloody, how long should I watch over this mess of others’ making? And such bull of a man does not die that easily, oh no,’ she huffed. Inside the house, the string cot creaked slightly, but then everything went silent. ‘Well, if that’s how you want to act, I’ll go,’ Rami grumbled and flounced back to her house.

***

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The sun had been barely up when a hue and cry rose in the village. Somebody had rained blows on Harisinh, on his head, chest and legs, while he was sleeping under a shed in the village head’s farmhouse. Luckily, the first blow, which landed right on his leg, woke him up in time to cry for help, and the others were too ill-aimed to cause any serious hurt. Otherwise, his life would have sneaked out of his arse before he had figured out what was going on. However, even in the dark, Harisinh had identified the attacker. ‘That Khodo, the lunatic.’ The rumour went as did the reactions to it. ‘Bloody dhe . . . has gone astray. But you must give the devil his due. He is a spunky fellow. Really, one must be headstrong to assault someone like Harisinh. Hats off to him.’ ‘He was bound to get spunky sooner or later. How cruelly the village head had finished his parents! Don’t you know that?’ ‘He is the village head, my friend. He is licensed to ruin anything, standing crops or lives. But this lout is an outcaste. Still, he dared to cross him . . .’ Then . . . ? And then a giant horde of darbars stormed the street, grabbing whatever they could lay their hands on; sticks, scythes, long-handled axes, clubs and tins of kerosene. The village head bellowed as he reached the centre of the street. ‘Where the hell is that bloody Khodo? Tell the motherfucker to come out, otherwise I’ll set the entire street alight. You bloody dhe . . ., you broke my son’s leg? Your head seems to have turned, haan? Come out, you. Where are you, Parbat? Bring me a tin of kerosene.’

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Just as small birds slip into their nests when a hawk swoops down, everybody in the street scuttled inside their houses. Even Punjo and Rami rushed in and began to peer from the crevices of the door locked from the inside. In a blink, the entire street put on a deserted look, save for an echoing hush that hung in the air. One sturdy fellow headed towards Punjo’s house and heaved his scythe onto the string cot spread in the courtyard. The voice of the village head boomed, ‘Hey Punjo, tell me where the hell that Khodo is hiding, or else your house will go up in flames.’ He made it to the courtyard of Punjo’s house. A street dog barked at him from a safe distance, but somebody hit it with a stick, and it ran away yelping in pain. A heavy silence engulfed the street again. ‘Why, you brave men, have you gone deaf? Shucks to your mothers. Today I will settle your bloody hash. One man comes and fastens the chain to the door; another comes and breaks my son’s leg. What bloody cheek! We have let you people off time and again, but not anymore.’ Sticks, scythes and pikes began to land on the wooden frames of roofs, eaves, string cots and roof tiles of all the houses in the street. Heavy blows rained on a few doors as well, but nobody uttered a word. Punjo felt that he should go out. But he had been a witness to the tragic end a spirited man like Khodo’s father had met. Almost involuntarily his eyes travelled in the direction of the bathing place in the street. For a moment, the image of Khodo’s father tossing in the pool of blood flashed before his eyes. A sense of self-disgust washed over him, but at the same time, his heart surged with genuine admiration

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for the courage a lunatic like Khodo had displayed. Now, every single hair on his body bristled with anger. He began to look madly around for his scythe. As soon as he found it, he clutched it in his vice-like grip and made straight for the door which was rattling violently on account of nasty blows dealt from outside. Rami tried to hold Punjo back, a sense of mounting panic writ large on her face. Punjo was struggling to jerk her away when he heard a joyful cry outside, ‘Hey, there it is . . . That’s Khodo’s house.’ The entire gang wheeled round and made for Khodo’s house like a hungry pack of hounds. Punjo kept peering intently through the crack in the door, his grip on the scythe becoming firmer by and by. ‘Hey, don’t set the house on fire. Pull the bastard out and set him alight,’ the village head instructed. A few hefty men, looking as if they were possessed, began to land kicks on the weak plywood shutters that gave way in no time. ‘Wait a minute. Disrobe him first and bring the bugger stark naked over here. Today we will put him on fire, right in the middle of this street, for all to see and take their lessons,’ the village head blared out the order. But then, unable to contain himself, he stormed into the house pushing his henchmen aside. Removing his pointed shoes into the veranda, out of habit, he jumped over the broken door and lunged at the cot spread in the middle of the room. Not finding anyone in the cot, he had hardly let out a frightening roar, ‘Bloody Khodo gave us a slip . . .’ when something stiff like a heavy stick rammed into his forehead and toppled his turban. Smarting under burning pain, he began to caress his forehead, his features

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all scrunchedup. But before he could figure out what it was, another massive blow struck him in the same spot with equal force. Unable to contain his rage, he gnashed his teeth and grabbed the object with his right hand, his eyes still squeezed shut in pain and shock. Curiously, he began to feel the object with his hand. ‘Fuck it . . . Whose feet are these?’ As a dazed shriek escaped the village head’s throat, his henchmen rushed inside to find him gaping blankly at the crossbeam, his hands holding the feet of a human frame hanging languidly, right next to the moliyo, from the wooden beam. Confused by this new apparition, the flies were buzzing their way back and forth between the grimy tassels and the grume-like eyeballs that had popped out of their sockets. A column of sunlight filtered in through a hole in the roof and cast a perfectly round, brilliant moon on Khodo’s hand that looked pitch-black and lifeless like the moliyo.

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arrying a giant creel overhead, Jivi trudged her way to sathari and turned around in a tizz to see what had taken that bull of a man so long. They did start out from the village together, didn’t they? He must have stopped on the way for a drag. May his chillum be damned! Jivi grumbled, but at once burst into a snicker as she saw Ranachhod in the distance, charging down the dusty road like a clown, a steel and a knife in hand, and bawling out instructions to her, as was his habit. ‘Put the creel down in the middle of the pit. Don’t empty it, wait for me.’ ‘Fine . . . Now come here quick and help me take this headload down,’ Jivi snapped somewhat impatiently as she beckoned Ranachhod with an urgent handwave. On reaching the sathari, Ranachhod dropped the goad and the knife on the ground and helped her unload and empty the creel in the middle of the shallow pit; a rectangular, giant grave, though not so deep, and splayed like a skinned buffalo in the scrub. No sooner had they emptied the big basket than a few beefy dogs rushed in barking, as 72

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if to stake their claim to the luscious chunk of the bull, a young he-buffalo, that almost filled the pit. ‘Scram . . . you!’ Ranachhod yelled as he hurriedly grabbed the knife and heaved it to scare the pack away. The dogs scuttled away to a safe distance and sat there panting, their slavering tongues lolling out. An impatient vulture from the flock perched on the Kanaji tree rose on the wings of heavy, noisy flaps, circled above the pit as if to take a stock of the progress made and landed back on the treetop in despair. All the vultures were leering ravenously at the cull, cocking their necks up and down every now and then. ‘Go home now. And take this creel along,’ Ranachhod spat out authoritatively, then hesitated and quickly corrected himself, ‘No, leave it. Bhikho will bring it along.’ ‘All right . . .’ mumbled Jivi and set out hurriedly. ‘Hey, wait a minute. On your way back, just drop a word to all those who have a share in this to come to our place for claiming their chops . . . though this is not that plump a carcass, you see,’ Ranachhod said pointing to the animal and then stood dreamily wondering if there would be enough meat to share if all of them turned up. And turn up they will, with their aluminium pots and pans, he thought. Jivi made her way home without a word lest it should wake Ranachhod up from his reverie. On the way back, she bumped into Mena, the harridan. ‘Is it true, Jivi, that the bull of Lavji Korot has given up the ghost?’ Mena asked, coming straight to the point. ‘Oh yes. So, the news took wings and reached every corner of the street, has it?’

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‘Why, I knew it from day one, if you ask me, from the day Lavji’s buffalo had delivered, that this wretched one won’t last long,’ Mena snickered meaningfully and continued, ‘A young bull is not likely to stay in the flesh for more than a fortnight. Appreciate the patience of Lavji’s wife that she bore with it till now, otherwise it would have been biting the dust of sathari much earlier.’ Mena’s insinuations filled Jivi with a sense of disgust. She wanted to tell the hag to put a leash on her tongue but, choosing to bite her own instead, she hurriedly moved on. But then what the old woman said was the plain naked truth. Was there anything in it to take offence at? She sighed deeply and made her way home. Shame and remorse flushed her cheeks. ‘Pass a handful of chops to me also, good woman! Do you hear?’ She could hear the babbling of Mena behind her, but she did not respond or even turn around, just plodded on trying to divert her mind to the whole lot of chores she couldn’t attend to since morning due to the business of that accursed cull.

*** Bhikho, the begged one, came up and put the axe on the ground. Ranachhod turned the carcass over and set it square. Then propping it up against his legs, he began to scrape the knife and the goad against each other as if to sharpen them. ‘Now, hold its legs,’ he instructed Bhikho as his lined face turned slightly grave.

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Bhikho closed in and held the upended legs of the animal tightly with both his hands. Ranachhod sat down on his haunches and put the goad away, though not beyond the reach of his hand. As he held the tail, his mind went blank, his pensive eyes lost to the shine of the freshly grown, soft down on the rope-like, fleshy tail. ‘Bloody, how long do we have to drag on like this? Shucks! Our destiny is written in blood. Hunger makes us do things we would not even imagine doing otherwise. Living beings have to devour living beings. Damn such wicked existence!’ he grumbled in one breath. A small eddy of dust, kicked up by a sudden gust of wind, engulfed him, but he didn’t move, just sat motionless for what seemed to be a long while. Realizing that his hands were sweating, he gently let go of the tail and rubbed his palm in the dust on the ground. With a bitter snigger, he discarded his thoughts, grabbed the tail once again and started grazing the sharp edge of the knife against the sparse fur on greyish skin. Then, taking a deep breath, his eyes riveted on the tail, he made a spherical gash around the root of the tail with a practised hand. A streak of dark blood oozed out of the gash and what he saw next gave him shivers. The tail and the four upturned legs began to tremble as if from an earthquake. Before he could figure out anything, the callow animal jumped up on all fours and almost immediately got dashed onto the ground with a resounding thud. Letting go of the hindlegs and breaking into a sprint, Bhikho stood panting at a safe distance. Ranachhod too backed out in panic. His shocked hand, trembling like the cull’s tail, could not hold the

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knife anymore. Sweating profusely all over his body, he kept gawping at the animal with terror-stricken eyes. Still the creature’s legs seemed to shake slightly; even its tummy heaved up, once or probably twice, from under the ribcage. No, it could not be an optical illusion. He saw it with his own eyes, didn’t he? Frozen for a few endless seconds, Ranachhod slowly tried to regain his senses, but a surge of horror and resentment set every single cell in his head on fire. ‘Damn it! Bloody Lavji, fucker of your sister. You heaped the sin on my head. At least you should have told us that the poor thing was alive. Even the daft-headed Jivi couldn’t make it out, bloody vixen.’ Overcome by maddening rage and deep disgust for the entire village, he began to blast everyone, now Jivi, then Lavji. Raving and ranting thus, he grabbed the knife lying on the ground and began to whiz and slash it vehemently in the air as if to chop the whole scheming world into pieces. Bhikho watched everything from a distance, incredulous, his eyes popped-out and heart aflutter. ‘Why are you making a fuss, uncle?’ his voice gurgled as he asked meekly. ‘What else shall I do then? The burden of sin is on our heads because of that scoundrel, don’t you realize that? This young he-buffalo . . .’ Ranachhod kept staring at the carcass for a while and then steamed out, ‘Fucking, they relish the milk and ghee and then thrust the sin on us . . .’ Then, as if having been reminded of something, he shouted out with an unusual urgency in his voice, ‘Look, Bhikho, look! The creature twitched

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just now. Go and fetch a tumblerful of water. Still it’s breathing, see.’ Such droll stuff coming from his uncle made Bhikho rattle with laughter. ‘It has gone stone-cold, uncle. What will you do with water now, unless you’re planning to wash your mouth and offer your condolences to this blasted one?’ Bhikho’s tone dripped with mockery but Ranachhod remained silent, too overcome with grief to react. Bhikho realized, he had gone a step too far, so he went over and squatted close to the carcass. Held his fingers to its nose, stroked its stomach and then declared pensively, ‘The body is still somewhat warm, but there is no life. Poor thing is dead. The soul left the body through the eyes.’ He tenderly put his palm onto the wide-open eyes of the animal and closed them with a gentle caress. ‘Now cut that crap of yours, will you? A moment ago, it sprang up to its feet like a ghost, didn’t it? Then, how can it die so soon? Oh no, it can’t be . . .’ Ranachhod wasn’t ready to breathe in the reality of the animal’s death. Both the skinners stilled where they were for a while. An uneasy silence hung in the air. With his head bent, Bhikho kept running his fingers absentmindedly on the creature’s tongue that had dangled out, languid and pale. Then, as if jolted out of a reverie, he suddenly raised the head of the cull with his hands and rattled out in a single breath, ‘See! It is stark dead. No point in waiting now. I will hold it, and you start skinning it from the tail. It will be noon in no time. We will get to have curry for lunch if you hurry up. Come on!’

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‘Hell with your curry, you idiot! Today I will settle the hash of that Lavji, that lowdown scum. He intrigued me into committing a sin. You skin the cull while I take care of that rogue.’ Ranachhod was getting increasingly restless, something that manifested in his tottery gait as he began to leave. ‘Uncle, cool down and be seated.’ ‘No, I don’t want to sit. I am going to the village. Today one of us will be wiped off the face of the earth. It’s either me or Lavji now.’ He gave the knife to Bhikho who rose to his feet and slowly made towards the other side of the carcass, his eyes glued on Ranachhod all the while, trying to figure out if the man was possessed or nuts. Slightly discomfited by that gaze and unsure of how to react, Ranachhod issued speaking orders before heading straight for home, ‘Skin it properly. I will be right back.’ As soon as he stepped into the courtyard of his hut, he bawled out for Jivi. ‘Where are you, Naniyo’s mother . . . Can’t you hear? And where the hell has that Naniyo buzzed off?’ ‘Why, can Naniyo stay in the house for long? He must be playing with his friends. You were skinning the cull, weren’t you? How come you are back so soon?’ Jivi came out, muttering her stock complaints and queries. Ranachhod, who, otherwise, was fond of her guileless prattle, frowned at her and spat out edgily, ‘Bring me my stick. I’m going to the village. Also, bring the chillum and a smouldering dung cake if you’ve lit the fire today.’

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Puzzled by the unfamiliar streak of asperity in Ranachhod’s tone, Jivi kept gawping at him. Unable to control her outrage at being cold-shouldered for no fault of her, she snapped back, ‘Are you racing against time or what? What disaster has struck the nation that you can’t waste a moment?’ ‘No disaster . . . and certainly not a national one, except that your man’s fate is blasted. Why, you dragged a living bull to the sathari and still you have the gall to ask me what has happened?’ Before Jivi could explain, Mavji Pandyo walked into the courtyard, adjusting his multi-partitioned jhola that hung heavily on his right shoulder. The couple fell silent. Holding the jhola with one hand and blessing his hosts with the other, Pandyo began to proclaim theatrically, ‘Chant the name of Lord Rama, brother. Welfare to all, victory to all. Today is the auspicious day of Agiyarash. Give charity grains to the mendicant . . . righteous souls that you are . . .’ As if under a spell of black magic, neither Ranachhod nor Jivi budged, not even an inch. So Pandyo carried on, ‘Today is the auspicious day of Agiyarash. Give a handful of grains in charity and pocket loads and loads of holy merit.’ ‘Why are you out on your rounds so early today?’ Ranachhod blurted out a candid query, waking up from his stupor, but on realizing that it could mean disrespect to Mavji Pandyo, he bit his tongue. Pandyo burst into laughter. ‘What difference does it make to a mendicant if it is morning or afternoon? He survives on charity-grains.’ He stopped for a breather,

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it seemed, and then almost effusively added, ‘Do you people observe a fast of Agiyarash? If you have not had anything yet, keep a fast of Agiyarash. You will amass holy merit . . . It helps obviate sin.’ ‘Really?’ Ranachhod asked, curious. The bloodied image of the cull flashed before his eyes. ‘Bloody, I committed a sin unknowingly . . . Keeping a fast obviates sin!’ The words rankled in his mind. Deep in thought as he was lost to the world, Jivi shuffled inside the house and brought millet grains in her cupped hands. ‘Please accept our offering, Pandyo.’ Mavji Pandyo carefully squeezed different partitions in his jhola, one after another, to identify the one that contained millet grains. Then, he held out its gaping mouth before Jivi. Jivi emptied her hands into what seemed to be a bottomless pit. ‘Be victorious, good folks. I hope the dogs in the street are not the biting type.’ ‘Oh no, they are not . . .’ Ranachhod assured briefly and turned around. Bidding victory to his benefactors, Mavji Pandyo made for another house.

*** As soon as Pandyo left, Ranachhod turned to Jivi. ‘Bring me the chillum and the stick now. Hurry up . . .’ Seeing that Ranachhod was hastening to leave for the village, Jivi made a last-ditch effort to avert the calamity she foresaw.

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‘Why, haven’t you got it over with yet? Let that damned Lavji rot for eternity in hell. Why are you getting so worked up?’ ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Don’t try to be oversmart. Just go and bring my stick. Pandyo says today is the auspicious day of Agiyarash. Lavjibha gave away a breathing animal for skinning. And you, smart ass, you did not notice it when you carried it here?’ Ranachhod’s question made Jivi’s blood run cold. When she went to drag away the creature, Manima had whispered secretively in her ears, ‘Jivi, take this one away, don’t make too much fuss, okay? It’s breathing low, but I am sure, it will give up the ghost on the way!’ She had hesitated initially, but when Manima offered her a bribe of five kilograms of millet, she agreed. Unfortunately, she had forgotten to tell Ranachhod about it. Moreover, Lavjibha had gone to the neighbouring village to buy a new buffalo when the deal was struck; so, he was not a party to the crime. She began to give excuses to hide her blunder in a tone way softer than it was before. ‘So what if he sent this thing alive? Now it is dead, isn’t it?’ The tremor in her voice was not lost on Ranachhod. ‘Yes, it’s dead, but what about the sin that has defiled the sathari? They deprive these poor things of their mother’s milk and starve them to death. And then they go about complaining that tanners are always on the lookout for culls. Bloody sinners!’ Jivi stood speechless, her imagination failing to think up a convincing reply. Fuming quietly, Ranachhod stomped inside and clutched by the neck the thin bamboo

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stick that seemed to be hiding behind the door. Settling into a steady rhythm, he grabbed the chillum and the bundle of tobacco flakes, tucked them into the pocket of his short-sleeved shirt and stormed out. The receding taptapping of the stick seemed to signal the cooling of his temper to Jivi, but still, she would not stop before doing her final bit. ‘Just watch your tongue. And please don’t pick a quarrel with anybody, okay? Almighty watches everything from above. Remember, we have not killed the he-buffalo.’ ‘Stop blabbing, you bloody tail of heavenly justice. Worry your head over your cooking instead. I’ll be back in no time.’ ‘Did you hear what I said? Fights don’t bring any good to anybody. Lavjibha is not the only one who starves young bulls to death . . . The entire village does it.’ Without heeding Jivi’s waffle, Ranachhod set out for the village. An overwhelming turmoil had raged within him. Jivi’s words—‘Lavjibha is not the only one . . .’— kept ringing in his head. ‘Okay, fine . . . The entire village does it, I agree. But they do not send them to the sathari stark alive. And if the entire village starts sending living bulls to the sathari, tell me how you would tell a tanner from a butcher?’ he groused in a low voice. As he quickened his pace, he shook his head in regret and threw his hands up in disbelief every now and then, all of which bespoke the bitter argument he was holding with his self. He walked on and on until his stomach felt a tug of desire to pull at his chillum. He stopped by the side of the

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road and sat on his haunches. Sticking his hand into the depths of his shirt pocket, he twisted awkwardly to take out the chillum and the bundle of tobacco flakes. But the question of how to procure a smouldering ember or dung-cake to light the chillum poured cold water over his flaming urge. He cursed his luck and tucked them back into the pocket. The thought of his inborn misfortune set off a flash of memory, that of the callow bull he had unknowingly butchered. The vision of its trembling legs sent a chilling quiver through his body. His mother would always tell him, ‘If we kill a living being, we have to present its golden replica to God as an offering, if not in this life, then in the next.’ What if he had to make an offering of a buffalo cast in gold? Where would all that money come from? The sheer stupidity of his thoughts made him crack up. ‘Heck! It took me no less than four years of drudgery as a serf to buy a light nose-ring for my wife. And now a buffalo cast in gold to be offered to God?’ Heaving a deep sigh, he moved on and reached Lavji’s mansion, lost in thoughts.

*** Manima was standing in the courtyard. She stormed towards him as soon as she saw Ranachhod in the distance. ‘Why, you shameless wreck! It’s not even been a few hours since Jivi dragged away the animal and here you are, close on her heels, for claiming your millet. What blasted gluttons you people are! Just don’t have any sense

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of shame. Now, sit over there by that tree in the corner. You will get your pay-off after a while.’ ‘What pay-off?’ muttered Ranachhod with his head bowed and hands held together at the back. Though at a loss to figure out Manima’s rant, he did not look at her directly. ‘Sit quietly now, without mumbling “what” and “why”.’ Flouting Manima’s command was a tough call as it was, and when somebody from the corral announced Lavjibha’s arrival, his lips were sealed, once and for all. Leaving his stick to rest against his shoulder, he squatted in the shade of a tree and sank into his pet bog of thoughts. Pangs of hunger and utter weariness, more of drowsiness than any real fatigue, crept over him and induced a few fitful dozes. Settling into a withdrawn squat with his shoulders all hunched-up and head tucked securely in the hollow of his frog legs, he quietened down. Whenever he squatted into that perfect posture, which he had inherited from his forefathers, his body relaxed and his grip on time weakened. He was sinking slowly, the world outside was blurring out. Just then, something like a roar echoed and he came to, with a start. ‘Oye, tether the buffalo to the iron peg over there. And who is squatting there in the corner? Arre Ranachhod, what brings you here at this hour?’ Though Lavjibha’s bellow had given Ranachhod a scared start, the recall of the purpose of his visit gave strength to his heart. Furious, he grabbed his stick, his grip on it tightening with every passing second, and rose to his feet. But the sight of a strapping Lavjibha, standing like a giant bull, made him get cold feet. Sweat

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oozed out from every single pore on his body. Hopelessly unnerved, he could not figure out what to say and how. His throat went completely dry. He saw a serf tugging at the leash on a shiny, reluctant buffalo and drawing it with supreme effort towards the iron peg in the corral. It took him almost equal exertion to mumble out two frail words. ‘That he-buffalo . . .’ ‘What? Which buffalo? I have recently bought this one, you see. The young one born to her died soon after, poor thing. This one gives a potful of milk at a time . . .’ Lavjibha bragged about his new buffalo, cleverly sidestepping the issue of the cull. Hearing that the young bull of even this buffalo had died, an exclamation tripped off Ranachhod’s mouth. ‘What . . . !’ ‘Aren’t you done with your whats and buts? What is wrong with you? Take this fag and have some drags. This buffalo is worth five thousand, not a penny less . . . understood? Why have you buzzed in here, by the way?’ Lavjibha flicked the live fag, from which he had already had a couple of swigs on, towards Ranachhod who caught it in his cupped hands. The burning end of the fag stung him in his palm, but he immediately clutched it properly between his index finger and thumb and began to pull at it ravenously, his eyes fixed pointedly on its fast-decreasing length. A spree of frenzied drags did not give his frayed nerves any respite, however. At last, he began to look at the sky with narrowed, despairing eyes. ‘God, the sun is almost overhead. Had I fallen asleep or what?’ he wondered and attempted another puff at

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the butt. But the acrid taste in his mouth embittered him further. To fight off the nausea, he worked up a spitball in his mouth, but then checked himself and swallowed it. Bending over quickly, the stick safely locked in the crook of his arm, he snuffed out the stompie on the ground and slipped it into his pocket for later use. His stomach had been churning; raging thirst, worsened a hundredfold by growling hunger, had turned his knees to water. Lavjibha and the serf had already got busy with the new buffalo and its small hassles to make it comfortable in its new home. Just then, Manima came out. ‘Why, haven’t you left yet? Your feet have struck root, it seems. Scram now . . . Come in the evening. What bloody cheek! It’s already afternoon and still this lout is hovering like a vulture over this place.’ Manima’s words, pure molten lead, seared their way to his heart. His heart was a raging furnace now, but his body was drained of the strength and the spirit to fight, neither for his humiliation nor for the cull. The distress caused by terrible thirst was tearing him apart. But he did not ask for water; he simply couldn’t. ‘Bloody . . . all of them are seasoned crooks!’ he grunted and made for his street, his mind in turmoil over the scandal of the pay-off, the bung of millet.

*** As soon as he stepped into the courtyard of his house, he flung his stick away and whined for Jivi. ‘O Naniyo’s mother, bring me some water. I’m dying of thirst.’

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‘Oh, you are back from Lavjibha’s. Hope, you didn’t get into a wrangle there?’ Jivi inquired with deep concern as she hurried out with a tumbler. ‘Hell with Lavjibha! Serve out a plate for me. I am dying of hunger.’ ‘Have you . . . ?’ ‘I haven’t done anything. Go and get my plate ready, will you?’ ‘Just give me a minute. Piping hot rotlas and spicy curry are ready.’ Jivi lifted the stick from the ground and left with a bounce in her step, happy that her worst fears had not come true. Ranachhod washed his hands, feet and face with half of the water and downed the rest in a single draught. Then he went inside, put the tumbler near the earthen water pot, wiped his face with his headgear and sat on his haunches waiting eagerly for his meal. Jivi came out with a pile of rotlas on a perforated brass plate and meat curry in a large bowl and placed them near Ranachhod’s feet. ‘The curry smells excellent. What is it made up of?’ asked Ranachhod as he drew in the aroma. The sight and smell of the food had stirred his stomach like never before. ‘Why, from the meat of the cull Bhikho skinned this morning. Don’t you remember?’ ‘What . . . ?’ Ranachhod let out a horrified cry. In an instant, the bitter memories of the morning broke loose upon him. Suddenly, a net of wrinkles crept on his forehead. Embittered to the core, he felt like emptying the sea of anguish churning within him, venting the frenzy of

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rage pent up in his heart and blasting Lavjibha, Jivi, the entire village and the whole unjust world. But his tongue failed him, the way it did at Lavjibha’s. With his eyes riveted to the bowl, he saw that the curry had begun to heave. As he gaped, the undulations in the dark red sea became more and more violent. First, the hooves . . . then the legs and finally the entire bull floated up. He rubbed his eyes in utter disbelief, and a resounding thud, that of the universe collapsing on him, curdled his blood. The cull tossed about in the bowl. An enormous streak of blood trailed out and became gigantic by and by. A quivering, twitching tail flailed about in the house . . . Something heavy came crashing down and hit the ground with a loud thud . . . It was the he-buffalo . . . knocked flat on the ground . . . and the entire house was littered with bloodied shreds of meat. Every shred stark red . . . utterly red . . . blood red. He closed his eyes in horror. ‘If you haven’t had anything yet . . . keeping a fast obviates sin!’ Mavji Pandyo’s words suddenly echoed in his head. A vision of the lowing bull dashing threateningly towards his house made him jump to his feet with a panicked start; his entire body was awash with sweat. ‘What happened? Why did you bolt up like that? A moment ago, you said, you were dying of hunger!’ Jivi’s voice was brimming with deep unease and growing apprehension. Ranachhod opened his eyes and saw Jivi standing before him like a question mark. Pile of rotlas and meat curry seemed to stare back at him in confusion. His reflection in the oil floating over the curry looked exactly like the callow he-buffalo. He was buffaloed. Literally.

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At a loss to figure out his surroundings as much as what to do with it, he bent over, joined his hands to the bowl in apology and gently pushed it away. After performing the due ritual of not meaning any disrespect to food, as he straightened up, he felt immensely relieved. The sight of the bowl, pushed so austerely away, had taken the crippling burden off his mind. As nothing else occurred to him, he turned away with a rueful laugh, brought out the stompie from his pocket and declared somewhat renunciatively: ‘Bring me a smouldering dung cake from the fireplace. It’s Agiyaras, and I am fasting today.’

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straggle of about a dozen-odd huts, with tightly packed mud walls and sloping roofs set with broken roof tiles of native make, lay scattered at the base of the hillock, standing guard over the eastern boundary of the village. A small settlement of weavers and tanners away from the centre of village life, it was known as vaas in common parlance. The afternoon sky looked forlorn and empty, if one didn’t count the single brahminy kite which had taken to deep skies as if to float in peace. Everybody in the vaas had been out on their daily drudgery—cutting stalks of grain, arranging them in neat stacks and so on in the farms of landlords—as the season of harvest had set in. At the frilled gate of the lane sat Laliyo, a piebald dog of white and faded brown, legs tucked under its panting body and a slavering tongue lolling out. Suddenly, it jumped up on all fours and shook its head wildly, such that its swinging, languid ears produced a rattle-like effect akin to a damaru. Then, it stretched its forelegs out in the front, leaned down on its elbows, tautened and twisted its body to shake off sloth. With the sickle-shaped tail 90

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wagging, it cast a flitting look at the sky, felt like barking but didn’t and, at once, turned towards the vaas. Trotting slowly into the lane, it stopped briefly at Gokal’s hut and began to sniff around. Then, as if tiring of the effort, it made straight for the hut across the lane and sat there peacefully, its legs tucked under its panting body. Down with terminal illness, Gokal’s ailing body—a bag of bones wrapped up in a grimy collarless, sleeveless shirt and a grungy dhoti—lay supine in a sagging coirstring cot. However hard he wished to, he couldn’t go along with others for daily-wage labour on account of his failing health. There was not a soul in the entire vaas except for Naniyo, his grandson, who was tasked with the job of looking after the old man. Barely eight, Naniyo moved around without a stitch on except for a dirty sleeveless shirt that stopped short of his waist. With layers of dirt on this tiny frame and build-up of gunk in the corners of his eyes, he might come across as a shabby, lazy lad to a stranger, but when it came to different games, he was an ace player. He would have been of some help to his parents in tying the grain stalks into clumps and stacking them up had he not been forced into the care and service of his grandpa. Extremely understanding and innately compromising, he had set aside his grump and was immersed in playing with his toy cart, forged out of a sorghum stalk and mouths of broken earthen pots. Gokal coughed and his phlegm-filled chest spoke up. He felt a tug of desire for a smoke. He strained hard to heave his frail frame out of the sagging cot, but all he could manage was to just sit up. On the other hand, the physical effort roused in him an urge to urinate; however,

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not an ounce of energy was left in him to try and get out of his cot. Suppressing his urge, he remained seated for a while and then called out for his grandson, his voice croaky and tired. ‘Hey Naniyo, where are you?’ With no response forthcoming, he bawled out, irritated. ‘This bloody brat won’t stay put in the house even for a minute. Eh Naniyo, where the hell are you? Can he hear me?’ ‘What is it, bha? What has come over you that you are shouting like this?’ Naniyo scuttled in from somewhere and spat out, an angry frown lining his little forehead. ‘Bhai, be a sweetie and prepare the hookah for me. You are a good boy, aren’t you? See if there is a smouldering dung cake in the fireplace. Light it up.’ Gokal tried to cajole the kid into doing his bedding, a broad, coaxing smile playing on his haggard face. ‘Okay, bha,’ Naniyo responded briefly and busied himself with the rather intricate task of setting up a hookah. First, he changed the water in the vase and emptied out the old ashes and bits of coals from the bowl at the mouth of the fireplace. Then, he reached for the pouch hanging on the makeshift peg—actually a bull’s horn—on the wall, took out a pinch of humid tobacco flakes from it and rolled them into a small ball. With the help of a twig, he dragged a smouldering dung cake out of the fireplace, placed bits of dry cakes over it and began to softly blow over it, exactly the way his mother did every morning. Once the cakes lit up, he loaded the bowl with the tobacco ball and then stuffed it to the brim with cinders from the live cakes. Realizing that the

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hookah was good to go now, he started taking cautious, gentle drags. The hookah spoke up, letting out a pleasant gurgle. Startled by the sound, Gokal shouted a warning, ‘What are you doing there, hanh? Puffing at the bloody thing on the sly, aren’t you? Come here, you fucker. The rascal can’t wash his arse properly and dreams of puffing at a hookah. Come here straight, do you hear me?’ Naniyo came up to him, out of breath from running and nervousness, handed over the hookah to Gokal and sneaked away under the pretext of playing with his toy cart. Just then, a voice, like gunshot, rang out at the gate of the lane. ‘Ho, is anyone there in the vaas?’ Too tired to get up or even respond, Gokal kept sitting on his veranda, thinking that the man would go back if nobody responded. After a while, the hoarse callout, now slightly angry, rose from the direction of the mouth of the lane. ‘Bloody, no one cares to respond even. What cheek! Is there anyone in the vaas, hey?’ Alarmed, Laliyo leapt up, rushed to the gate and began to bark raucously. Then, Gokal heard a stick raining down blows, and then an agonized yelping closing in. He smacked his lips noisily, a signal for the dog to come back. Returning, Laliyo stood in front of his hut and began to paw his right ear vigorously. ‘Naniyo, just see who has shown up at the gate, will you?’ asked Gokal, slightly anxious. Naniyo was too busy with his toy cart to pay attention to his grandpa’s instructions. Gokal tried to move in the hammock-like cot to see where Naniyo was, but not to

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much avail. Fed up, he turned his side and began to pull at the hookah, his eyes closed but ears all pricked up. Before long, he heard a shuffling noise of drunken steps closing in and coming to a halt. He turned around with a start and saw a human figure, reeking of booze, swaying in front of him. What he saw lurking in those bloodshot eyes sent a chill down his spine. At once, he straightened up in the cot, folded his hands in exhibition of decorum, mandated by convention, and said, ‘Oho, welcome Vajesangbha, welcome. Victory be to Lord Rama. How are you, bha? What brings you here, to the doorstep of your humble servant today?’ Vajesang, a middle-aged man in dirty clothes torn at multiple places and a dusty rag tied around lolling head, was the certified drunkard of the village. But today, he looked more far gone than usual and carried a bamboo stick in hand. On seeing Gokal, stretched out in the cot in his presence, his eyes narrowed in disbelief, insult and mad anger, in that order. Without responding to the welcome, he made an obscene, contemptuous gesture with this left hand and said sharply, ‘Bloody dhe . . . Look at its audacity, welcomes me lying in the cot. Says, it is my humble servant. Wah, what a farce! Damn smart! Ingenious!’ Gokal’s heart missed a bit. Vajesang had gone straight for the jugular, reducing him to neuter gender, a signal enough for him to predict what was coming. Nonplussed, he kept looking at Vajesang sheepishly, too scared to imagine how to bring his aggressor around. ‘Damn you, can’t you hear? What the bloody hell! Such damned airs! Puffing at a hookah and giving me

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looks, eh? What are you gaping at? Have you seen a human being in your lifetime or not?’ At once, Gokal began to strain hard to get out of the sagging cot, but broken by a terminal illness, his body didn’t cooperate. Dog-tired by the exertion, he fell languidly in the cot, stretched out his hand and placed the hookah against the wall behind his cot. He felt he was bursting for a pee now. Folding his hands in rank submission, he began to plead for mercy, ‘I’m down with fever for a month now. So much run down I feel that turning on my side gives me exhaustion of walking fifteen miles, bha. That’s why I’m lying in this cot. You are a large-hearted man, aren’t you? Please forgive this little incivility of your servant, bha.’ Vajesang lost his temper. ‘Look at the bloody spawn of mine! It sits regally in front of me and tells me that it’s down with fever. What kind of fever is it, eh? Don’t think, you can boss around now that you have whelped three sons. Bloody thing thinks it can cross words with me.’ ‘Not that, bha. Just because of this fever . . .’ Before Gokal could finish, blows of stick rained down; the hush in the vaas was cut into pieces by the hiss of lashes as well as by Gokal’s anguished cries that went rending the sky. ‘O madi, I am dead. Spare me . . .’ Swishhh . . . ‘O . . . mercy . . . God . . .’ Whackkk . . . A crisscross of black and red lashes inflected the old, wrinkled skin. Naniyo, who was lost in his play until now, froze at what he saw and began to shudder.

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A few more swishes and lashes echoed before the vaas regained its lost hush, albeit slightly heavier. The gutwrenching cries of Gokal, the resounding stick-blows and Vajesang’s filthy abuses died down. Everything stilled. Trying to fend off the rain of blows, Gokal had fallen off the cot and lay in a twisted heap on the ground, his dhoti wet and soiled. After an exhausting bout of battering slam-bang, Vajesang had been panting like a dog. Only when his concluding blows landed on the crosspiece of the cot did he realize that Gokal had toppled on the ground and lay there in a pile, corpse-like. Fuming, he pointed his stick at Gokal and stormed, ‘See, only a stick can drill some sense into these bloody dhe . . . Until now, it lay in the cot like a king; but a round of thrashing has put it in its place. Rascal talked back to me.’ Vajesang spat in disgust, looked around cautiously and sped out of the lane, a triumphant look on his face and a spring in his step. Laliyo too had turned tail and sneaked out of the vaas. After a long while, a slight squirming ruptured the stillness and funereal hush that hung over the vaas. Gokal was groping in the dust to locate something, his eyes brimming with tears. Shattered, he gave a low groan of pain and closed his eyes. At once, bittersweet memories, he had tried to bury in the deepest recess of his heart all these years, came flooding back to him. Intermittent howls of jackals rose from the wild, ominous forest that stretched beyond the scrub adjoining the vaas. The sun was beating down mercilessly, roasting every being below with its singeing glare. Licked by the flames of excruciating pain, Gokal felt every single pore on his

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body was on fire. A horde of ravenous, long-billed vultures, perched on the dried stump of the Kanaji tree in the distance, were busy picking clean some offal they had managed to salvage from the dump pit near the scrub. Their ceaseless pecking began to jar on Gokal’s nerves. He felt as if they were carving out a face through their relentless, vehement pecking. He began to see a hazy outline of a face beyond the mist of tears cloaking his eyes. He shuddered to think that the face resembled that of Vajesang. Gasping, he shook his head in disbelief, his eyes squeezed shut. The more he tried to chuck the face from his thoughts, the closer it came, threatening to engulf him. In a trice, the face started beckoning him with a whisper, ‘Gokalbhai . . . O Gokalbhai!’ The voice was pleading with him. ‘I’m standing behind the window . . . here in the dark.’ The voice sounded familiar, extremely familiar to his fine, seasoned ears. In a flash, he realized that it was Madhusang. ‘Yes, I got him . . . This is Vajesang’s father . . . It’s him,’ he muttered in a slumberous state and a dark, terrible night of the chhappaniyo, the great famine of the nineteen hundreds, broke loose upon him. ‘Gokalbhai, I tried everything, devised all possible means, but to no avail. Looks like my stars are cross with me. Gokabhai, Vajo, his mother and I have not had even a tiny morsel in the last three days. Not a grain is left in the house to break the fast. And this entire village has set out for a charity camp in the neighbouring village. All streets and lanes look so sepulchral and scary. As a last

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resort, I have come to you for help.’ Madhusang’s voice choked with emotion over the last sentence. ‘Madhubha, good that you called on. After all, in torrid times, it’s to fellow beings that humans reach out to. But bha, grains, even I don’t have. But there is a handful of konkaniyo that we had sundried for the lean season. I can give you some, if you don’t mind,’ Gokal had offered with a quiver in his voice. For what seemed to be a long while, a funereal silence reigned in Gokal’s backyard. Gokal’s offer had left him visibly stunned, even petrified, and at a loss for words. When he didn’t respond, Gokal said, in an effort to stir him out of his stupefaction. ‘Bha, I said I’ve got a few pieces of a buffalo’s meat, we had sundried last year. Would you care for a handful . . .?’ ‘As you wish, bhai. I’ll be grateful for whatever you can spare, even chops from a carcass. If my Lord has ordained it, who am I to object? Anything that can keep body and soul together in these hard times is as good as ambrosia, bhai.’ The image of Naniyo’s grandmother emptying a bowlful of konkaniyo in the head cloth of Madhusang flashed before his eyes; the aroma of steaming meat from his kitchen that evening floated in, travelled up his nose and exploded in his brain. And the words, ‘I’ll never forget this favour, this act of benevolence, Gokalbhai’, spiralled up his frail, battered body and clutched it in their vice-like grip. ‘Vajo . . . Vajesang . . .’ a sense of bitter resentment washed over him as he tried to utter those words. He

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tried to spit out in disgust, but couldn’t. Instead, a nasty fit of coughing gripped him; a sharp stab of pain tore him into two. The memory of the unjust thrashing he was subjected to crept over him, but before it could embitter him, he fell unconscious. When he came to after a while, his entire body was throbbing with pain and his throat felt parched. He called out, his voice low but keening, ‘Naniyo, where are you? Bring me some water, please.’ Naniyo, who was rooted to the spot having watched everything in absolute horror, woke up. This was his first brush with pain in its dual avatars, the physical and the metaphysical. Unable to understand the logic behind its infliction, he kept gaping at the steady wince on the face of his grandpa like a lunatic. He heard his grandpa’s words but couldn’t make them out. All he could do was burst into a sprint, as words dripping with shock and confusion trailed behind him. ‘Bha, I’ll go and fetch father from the fields.’ His toy cart lay abandoned behind him. Laliyo, meanwhile, sneaked in on cautious, unobtrusive paws. Throwing a compassionate, empathetic glance at the old man, who was moaning in agony, it began to habitually sniff around. A lone brahminy kite kept reeling over the vaas in what looked like interlocking, ever-widening circles.

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isten, bhai, please spread my cot on the veranda instead,’ Shiva Pandyo pleaded as he beckoned his son with a feeble wave of his hand. ‘Why, bha! What is the matter? Wasn’t this room constructed at your behest? And readied to your taste? And it’s windy outside. What if you caught a cold!’ Hari tried to reason with his father in a voice laden with loving concern. He too had taken to calling his father ‘bha’ after his young sons who addressed their grandpa with that upper-caste honorific. ‘Why do you worry as if it will rain stones and bricks, that too in broad daylight, if you did my biddings? I feel uneasy here.’ Hari saw a strange discomfiture on the old man’s face, but he could not make out what it was that caused it. Was it due to his dwindling health or the reference to the practice of hurling stones at night over Dalit quarters to teach them a ‘lesson’? ‘What’s the matter, bha?’

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‘Will you just get the cot out first and then proceed with your questionnaire?’ A streak of irritation cracked Pandyo’s voice. He began to fidget clumsily in an effort to heave himself up from the sagging string cot. ‘Here . . .’ Hari rushed and helped the old man with his hand. Pandyo’s bare torso convulsed from a nasty fit of coughing as he hurriedly adjusted his loincloth with one hand and held the other out to his son, mumbling: ‘Come close and hold my hands. The vice on my heart tightens when I see these photographs of gods and goddesses on the wall.’ ‘Praise be to Lord Rama, bha. You have reared a lush green orchard. We are so well off, all due to your piety and hard work,’ Hari harped on a happy tune to lift the sinking spirits of the old man. ‘You are right, son. The good lord has been kind to me. But please take me out in the veranda; I don’t like it here.’ As the bargain raged, Hari’s elder son, daughter-inlaw and his grandson rallied around the old man’s cot asking, ‘What happened? What is the matter, bha?’ ‘Nothing at all. Just that he wants to be taken out in the veranda,’ Hari explained. ‘Why? What for?’ ‘Why the hell are you all stuck up on whys and whatfors? Can’t you understand a simple thing? Just take me out, will you?’ Shiva Pandyo steamed out. ‘Okay, okay. Here, hold my hands and get up slowly. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Just watch your step,’ Hari obliged.

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Hari’s wife Kamala broke into her pet lament, ‘Dear me, look how this weeklong illness has ravaged his body! Otherwise, he had such a strapping frame, it wouldn’t yield to black labours of years together. How drained out he looks! Squeezed out completely . . .’ ‘Time takes its toll, dear. I must be at least five-toseven over eighty now, if not more. I was eight at the time of the Great Drought of the nineteen hundreds.’ ‘You have not got over the memories of those dreadful days, bha, have you?’ Shiva Pandyo’s frail body rattled with a spasm of coughing again. He stood shakily, holding his son’s shoulder for a while, gasping like bellows, his sallow eyes riveted to the moist horizons framed by the door. ‘How can I forget the horrors I witnessed? Torrid times they were, when parents turned their backs on their kids, when a brother abandoned his brother, when blood turned to water. I was a mere eight then but was damned to the wisdom of a fifteen. Everything around me had turned ghastly,’ Pandyo reminisced softly. Meanwhile, Kamala folded the quilt, turned the string cot on its side, took it to the veranda and laid it out afresh. ‘There you go. Now, pray to the good lord, bha. Have you placed the pillow as well?’ Hari called out aloud addressing nobody in particular. ‘Yes, everything is in place. The cot, the quilt and the pillow.’ ‘Let’s go, bha. Here inside the room, you could have had a darshan of these deities. Didn’t I get their pictures framed just for you? That one in the corner, you remember? I had bought it from Ambaji and got it framed

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at Siddhapur.’ Hari’s voice seemed to emerge from eerie depths while his eyes remained glued to the photo frame in the corner. ‘That is what flings my heart into the pits of hell. These frames . . .’ The sheer mention of Siddhapur unhinged the old man. He went into a fit of blabbering, and his shrill voice filled the air with utter confusion. He shook his head in self-pity laced with horror. The entire village seemed to loom precariously on his head, ready to collapse like the Rudramal temple. His frail frame twisted mortally as if to break free from a phantom grip, then suddenly gave way and sagged lifelessly in Hari’s hands. Hari cried out in panic, ‘Bha . . . !’ His head thrown back and his mouth wide open, Pandyo was gasping for breath. His heart was reeling over the hills of Siddhapur. The monastery, the winding tracks and the temple of Lord Shiva whirled before him. The heaving turbid waters of the Saraswati crashed into the ravines of his chest. He cast a flitting, feeble look at Hari and started coughing. ‘Why, bha. You’re dead tired, aren’t you?’ A glint of contentment lit up Hari’s face as he saw his father’s frail body, on the rack, come back to life. ‘A few steps yield the fatigue of walking fifteen miles these days. Damn the woes of dotages. My feet have turned to clay, it seems,’ Pandyo grumbled as his eyes fluttered. He looked around with a keen gaze soaking the faces of his kith and kin: Raman, Chhagan, daughters-inlaw, but his mental calculations did not tally. He looked away sourly. ‘Bhai . . . Don’t know why but the memories of your mother flood my mind today.’

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Hari kept looking at his father intently without responding. ‘This house prowls around to hunt me. If only your mother had been by my side today! But she chose to depart early . . . Probably she’d had enough of this world.’ Pandyo shook his head in deep sorrow and added almost as an afterthought, ‘But I wanted to tell her something . . .’ ‘What was it, bha?’ ‘Nothing. Now hold me tight,’ the old man almost snapped in irritation. Hari stuck his hands into Pandyo’s armpits and hoisted him to his feet. Pandyo slowly doddered his way to the cot, panting heavily all the while. Hari carefully laid him down and began to sway a hand fan over his head. ‘Good god! Now I feel at home, really. These open spaces, this neem tree probably as old as I am and this tin water tray hanging from its branch.’ The earthen tray reminded Shiva of the bhatavado, the brahmin street, of Siddhapur. ‘Have you ever been to the bhatavado of Siddhapur, son?’ ‘Yes, bha. But why do you mention it now?’ The tin tray began to bob up and down like a boat before his closed eyes. He tried to wipe dust over prickly memories, but a thin stream of tears surged up and stood precariously in the corner of his eye. ‘A similar water tray hangs from the eaves of the second house in the left row of the bhatavado in Siddhapur.’ ‘But what about that?’

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‘Nothing much. But if only your mother had been alive . . .’ ‘It’s been twenty years since mother left, bha.’ Hari’s voice choked. He turned his gaze away and held his breath to stifle the sob that threatened to overpower him. Shiva Pandyo sensed the moisture in his son’s voice. ‘Why do you lose heart, my son? Your mother was a pious soul. Whom would I remember if not her? But I couldn’t tell her one thing.’ Pandyo stopped short and kept gazing at the swaying green leaves of the neem tree, completely lost to the world. The warp and weft of his life, the gains and losses, the bittersweet moments began to unspool before his eyes. How much he had to endure! Just then, a small sparrow flew in, perched on the neem bough for a flitting second and took off just as immediately. The old man remembered his daughter who had been summoned but had not reached yet. ‘Might be on the way. She too has her household to look after,’ he consoled himself silently. A tar-black crow flew in and perched on the tin tray to drink water. Its weight sent the earthen tray rocking and Pandyo’s soppy heart racing back to the bhatavado. ‘Bhai, I had been to the bhatavado with your mother.’ Painful memories began to wriggle out of the crevices of his crumbling heart. ‘Give me some water,’ he croaked out in a fluster and gulped down a potful of water in one draught, then heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Why do you recall all these things today, bha? It’s time for you to recite the name of Lord Rama,’ Hari tried to reason in a mocking voice with his father who, he thought, was slightly deranged.

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‘No, I won’t. Not today,’ a curt, categorical denial tripped off Shiva’s mouth, the sheer vehemence of which took everyone aback. Shiva had been extremely devout all his life and couldn’t do without Lord Rama’s name even for a moment. A silence laced with mild shock fell on the veranda. ‘What plagues me is this . . .’ Pandyo rubbed his hand over the deep scar on his forehead as he essayed to blurt it out, but Hari cut him short and asked ‘Bha, isn’t this the scar, left by the wound you got in the fair?’ Shiva’s face twitched awkwardly in a mix of sudden delight and deep bitterness. ‘Why, yes. And that’s what runs a deadly knife over my heart.’ ‘It was the mad ox which headbutted you in the fair, wasn’t it?’ ‘An ox it was, but one with two legs, and the pangs of that humiliation gnaw at my insides even today. Its horn dug a wound not on my forehead but here in my heart.’ A wistful Pandyo placed his hand on his chest and continued, ‘You don’t have any idea how bitterly your mother rued that fateful day. Even I could not look anyone in the eye. So badly were we shamed, we could have dug our own graves and buried ourselves alive.’ ‘What are you talking about, bha?’ Hari’s voice quivered slightly in anticipation. ‘This secret in the darkest corner of my heart has been steadily gnawing at it all these years. This third eye cut in my forehead is not due to the headbutt of an ox.’ Everybody looked on with tearing unease, holding their breaths, as Pandyo stopped for a few interminable moments. ‘Those were the days of my youth. I was

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crazy about going to fairs. Just would not let a single fair slip out, be it Vanaravan, Balijara or Katok. Roaming around with friends in those heady days was inebriating. My bha got me married, and one day . . . when I went to the fair of Katok, this ox . . . No, no . . . Was it Katok or . . .’ Pandyo went silent again, but his gaping eyes scurried restively around, only to settle finally on the white flowers of the neem tree. A flat-chested pigeon, perched on its branch opposite its mate, began to coo, puffing its neck like bellows. Pandyo’s mind too caught onto its undulating rhythm. Looking at their serenity and love, a faint smile flickered on his face. But the very next moment, as a crow croaked in the distance, the pair whooped away, flapping their tiny wings. How intense was their love! How the male pigeon was trying to humour his love through his antics. Just for love. Love, love, love. And he did not realize when the muttering of love, love, love turned to Katok, Katok, Katok behind his closed eyes, transporting him to the dark abyss of memories he had suppressed with so much effort. ‘Now get going, will you? What would people say to such frolics? “The fair has gone to his head,” they’d say.’ ‘Let them say what they want. Heck, as if I am the only one making merry in this place.’ ‘Of course. There is nobody here. At least, nobody like you.’ Rolling her coquettish eyes, Shanta set afloat a ringing laughter. ‘O my, my. Just look at you. How cleverly your smart tongue wags! I look like a yokel in comparison, a twitter bird.’

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‘Now stop leering like a shameless lout. Let us go to the village instead, there.’ ‘Why village? Don’t you want to have fun here? You want a ride in the merry-go-round and that mini train there, don’t you?’ ‘Now listen to this, sir. I have been here for two days. Wouldn’t I have already seen the mini train and such stuff?’ ‘In that case . . . ?’ ‘You didn’t turn up the whole of the first day, you insensate rock. May that Pasali prosper who stayed back because her husband showed up, and so I too had to stay to keep her company. Or else I would have left the same day.’ ‘Why did you oblige then?’ Shiva said, picking a mock huff. ‘Lest you heave a sigh as heavy as a ton.’ ‘Get lost, you.’ Grabbing her hand, Shiva began to drag her behind him in tow towards the heart of the fair. But Shanta stopped in her tracks, ‘I want to see the village. Not much is left in the fair to see now.’ ‘Village?’ He got the drift of what Shanta was up to. But he knew only too well that entering the village in this attire would invite trouble. As a child, he had visited this village along with his father. Before entering the village, his father had taken off his Brahmin-style turban and tied a cotton headgear. He had kept giving calls of ‘Alert . . . Alert . . .’ throughout the time they were in the village, to warn people about their polluting presence. Growing up, he too had done that on his subsequent

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visits, without minding it really. It was the custom, wasn’t it? But today with Shanta by his side, he did not want to spoil the sport. ‘Skies wouldn’t come crashing if we don’t go there. Come on, let us go to the fair.’ ‘Nope . . . nowhere if not to the village.’ ‘We can’t go to the village dressed like this. Don’t you know that?’ He mustered the courage and came out clean on his fears. ‘It’s okay for us to roam around in the fair, that too in low-lying areas. No one would think about trespassing into the centre of village unless he is itching for a good thrashing.’ ‘Why can’t we go there? In our village, we walk in the bhatawado without any qualms, just like that. Of course, maintaining proper distance, that goes without saying,’ Shanta let out a snicker and added, ‘Look at you. Kediyun, white as a crane’s wing, brahmin-style turban, pointed shoes and this vermillion tilak as bright as the setting sun on the forehead. You look ditto like a gor, a brahmin priest.’ Shanta kept staring at him mischievously. ‘Stop it now, will you? You said I look like a gor, didn’t you? That’s the problem.’ ‘Who’s going to pick you out in this bustle today? In fact, I roamed about in the village yesterday with my cotton sari and even slippers on.’ Shanta proudly lifted her foot to show her new pair of slippers and then began to twirl her wooden earring with her index finger. ‘People would have taken you for a thakaradi. But on seeing me with you, they . . .’ Shanta cut him and continued, ‘Would call me a gorani. Nobody will make out that we are garos. Let’s go

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now . . . Don’t worry, nobody will recognize. Just take off your turban and tie your headgear. And that’s it.’ ‘Don’t talk nonsense. The turban may be hidden, but what about this brahmin-style kediyun? And this tilak on my forehead? That too will have to be rubbed out first. And these shoes should be held in our hands,’ Shiva began to quote, straight from an invisible rulebook. ‘Now cut the carping and come along. Nobody is going to slit your throat, and if they do, they will go straight to hell for murdering a brahmin.’ Shanta was in her raw element today. She wanted to enjoy the fair freely like rich women. Getting thus into a war of words, they did not realize when they took the road to the village and entered the bhatawado. Just then, a booming call jolted them out of their self-indulgent reverie. ‘O holy maharaj, where are you from?’ Both of them froze where they were, completely clueless about how to respond. Shiva looked up dreadfully at the veranda of a high-plinth house where a brahmin, with nothing on except a dhoti and a grungy thread slung across his torso, was standing. An earthen water tray, hanging from the eaves of the roof of his house, rocked slightly as a crow flew in and perched on its edge to drink water. Shiva’s gaze shuttled uncontrollably between the brahmin and the water tray. ‘What is the name of your village, Pandya?’ Shiva kept mum, but the roaring voice of the brahmin struck such terror in the crow’s heart that he slinked away without drinking any water, though its powerful push-off did succeed in spilling over some. Shiva tried to regain his composure.

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‘Which village, I said’ came the query a third time. ‘My village is this side . . . in the east. . . .’ Shiva fumbled in a tremulous voice. ‘The village will surely have a name, maharaj?’ ‘Yes . . . Lunava village.’ The more he tried to pull himself through this ordeal, the more he sank into the bog of deep worry about where this was leading. ‘Which Lunava? The one where Jivataram Gor stays? You must be his relative then.’ ‘Amm . . . no.’ ‘Then, must be from Parabhu Gors’, right?’ ‘No . . . not exactly.’ ‘Then, you yourself spill the beans, God’s kin, so that this guessing game ends. Come this side.’ Shiva’s feet turned to water. Had he been alone, he would have burst into a sprint and ran away, but with Shanta by his side, it was out of question. And he knew well how horrible the consequences of entering a brahmin’s house could be, that too on the sly. ‘Why are you dead silent and trembling like a snake’s tail when you have put on this brahmin-style turban, a dhoti with neat accordion pleats and this huge vermillion round-seal right in the middle of your forehead? What’s there to fear here in the brahmin street?’ A small crowd of old men and women, who had stayed back to guard their homes as the young ones headed for the fair, rallied to the scene out of curiosity or pure malice. ‘I’m . . .’ Pandyo fumbled, then mumbled, ‘I am a garo.’ No sooner did the word ‘garo’ trip off his tongue than a cannon-like boom rent the sky. ‘You bastards. See,

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now even garos have got the guts to enter the brahmin street on the sly.’ ‘Look at their cheek. They walk in upfront without shouting “alert . . . alert . . .”’ somebody from the crowd retorted. ‘And what funky dress? Hey Tarabha, where are you? Bring me my staff and shoes. Bloody dhe . . . have entered our colony, donning a tilak and all,’ the brahmin hollered. A cloudburst of vitriol from the crowd seemed to bury Shiva and Shanta. The brahmin shook, shouted and swore as if he had been possessed. The crowd ballooned slowly; the newcomers curiously cocked their eyebrows at others and asked, ‘What happened . . . who . . . from where?’ and upon revelation, they too cursed and spat in disgust. Tarabha, a boy of about ten, brought a heavy staff and a pair of pointed shoes. As the brahmin stepped down and headed for Shiva, the teeming crowd moved back to give him the right of way. ‘Look! This bastard has become a brahmin. Punditry seems to have gone up his arse. And fooling around with slippers on feet, an item in lap? Good god, Kaliyuga is full on.’ Shanta’s blood curdled; she immediately took off her slippers and hid them under the loose end of her sari and pulled her pallu from her nose right down to her chin. From that thin veneer of modesty, Shiva could still see the vortex of pain whirling in her watering eyes. As the Brahmin closed in, he spat out brusquely, ‘Take this bloody turban off.’ A quick hit by the butt of his staff toppled the turban on Shiva’s head.

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‘O Lord Shiva! My staff got polluted. I’ll have to purify it with holy water now.’ As soon as the turban fell, the crowd began to kick it around, trample it under their feet. Someone dealt a mighty kick, and it rolled off to the dumping ground for leftover food, a hangout of sorts for street dogs. Shiva could not bear to look at his mutilated turban. The brahmin came right up to Shiva and gave him a dirty look. He took off the shoe from his left foot and turned it upside down with the narrow end of his staff. With his penetrating gaze dug into Shiva’s eyes, he bent over, spat on the shoe’s filthy sole, straightened up and began to roll his eyeballs derisively. Everyone burst out laughing. ‘Go down on your knees now, rub your forehead against the sole and wipe out the vermillion. Otherwise . . .’ he raised his staff in the mock act of beating. Taking a cue from it, young boys in the crowd began to throw handfuls of sand at the duo; some went a step further and aimed gravel stones. The brahmin winked at them and said, ‘Hey, don’t pelt stones now, let him rub off his tilak first. Then, you can play dhuleti with them to your heart’s content, okay?’ The reference to dhuleti, a raw and boisterous way of playing Holi with sand instead of colours so popular amongst the teenagers, had the crowd in splits. Hoots of laughter mixed with sheets of sand poured down on them. Gravel hurled with unforgiving vehemence hit them all over. But they stood there immobile like tethered goats awaiting slaughter. ‘Bloody why don’t you move? Make it fast and don’t you dare touch the shoe, just rub your forehead on the spittle.’

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Sheer mortification had drained all life out of Shiva. Cornered on all sides by the crowd, it was not possible for him to act smart. He heard Shanta keening like a callow goat. If they got physical with her, he would die of shame, of the sheer ignominy of it. With a helpless, heavy heart, Shiva went down on his knees, bent over with hands tied behind his back, shut his eyes tight, scrunched up his features and went for it. A hundred stinking, sticky tongues of spittle madly licked his forehead as a thousand mouths spat over him simultaneously drenching him all over. After a few perpetual moments of humiliation, he got up and heard a gravelly voice boom, his eyes still closed. ‘Bastard, you know only too well how to don a tilak, but you lose all art when it comes to removing it.’ And at once, something like a rifle butt rammed into his forehead. Shiva Pandyo sat up from his bed with a start. Giddiness overtook him and his head lolled uncontrollably. Hari rushed to hold him and made him lie down slowly. Still everything—the roof of the house, the neem tree, the pigeon, the crow, his son—reeled before his eyes. He closed them, and blood gushed out like surging waters of the Saraswati from his third eye drenching him, Shanta and the entire brahmin street, through and through. ‘O dear me, they killed him . . .’ he heard Shanta letting out a hysterical cry. He tried to open his eyes but could not. ‘What else do you expect, you slut? You want to be a brahmin woman and have it rocking at the fair and everywhere, don’t you?’ The sight of blood and gore and the uproar scared the young boys away. Even the grown-ups, thinking the

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punishment was good enough to set a deterrent, dispersed gradually leaving Shanta and Shiva alone. Shiva got over the shock, the pain, the humiliation with considerable effort and got up to leave. Casting a final fleeting look at his turban in the distance, he limped on. Jets of blood that had sprayed from the deep vertical gash on his forehead had dappled his clothes. Pressing one end of his headgear against the wound, he tied the other around his head and kept shuffling wordlessly with Shanta until they reached the river. He washed his face, his wound, his headgear in the flowing waters of the Saraswati, rubbed his hand over the wound and sat up in his cot, once again, panting like bellows. His entire body had taughtened up, but the tongue was supple. ‘O my Shanta! This wound was cut not on my forehead, but on my heart. After all these years, its pangs still lacerate. You too never raked this matter up. We spent years together, but you did not mention it even once. Why Shanta why?’ Pandyo was blabbering away restlessly, now about his life and Shanta, then the wound and the insult. Hari cut in, ‘Bha, mother always said that a mad ox headbutted you in the fair of Katok.’ ‘Yes, your mother gave everybody a slip. How cleverly she did it, wiping dust over memories!’ Pandyo moaned in deep despair. ‘How neatly does this tilak you don every morning cover up your wound, doesn’t it?’ Shanta’s words, uttered in jest or in earnest, began to echo in the old man’s head. Was that mockery her way of forgetting or remembering? Did she really mean it, the fact of covering the past with the present? Or did she hint at the act of recovering that he could never perform? What

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could have potentially freed him, daubing or denuding? ‘Shanta, O mother of my Hari . . . I have figured now what you said . . . I won’t don the tilak now . . . no,’ Pandyo stammered out and went silent. He lay lifelessly for a while, then slowly opened his eyes and began to plead, holding Hari’s hand all the while. ‘Bhai, I don’t have any specific last wish . . . but I want to tell you something. Had your mother been alive, I would have unburdened my heart before her.’ He stopped to gather his breath. ‘Just promise me one thing . . .’ ‘Why, bha. We will perform your last rites to the hilt. You have tended a lush green orchard. You have in front of you your posterity of three generations. We will not let you down,’ Hari tried to assure the old man in his last moments. ‘Bhai, I don’t bother about those rites.’ ‘Then?’ ‘See, we are garo by caste. After death, we wash the dead body and put vermillion and sandal marks on the forehead and ears, don’t we? And then, place a Tulasi leaf in the mouth of the deceased, right?’ ‘Yes, we’ll do all that, bha.’ ‘But . . . !’ ‘Bha, we’ll do whatever you wish. Tell me without hesitation.’ ‘When I am no more, see to it that this scar on my forehead does not get covered up by anything. Not even by a tilak.’ Shiva’s hand reached for the scar on his forehead, but he pulled it back violently as if scorched by a glowing ember. He sat up and began to pant breathlessly. A stunned silence hung in the air. As the puffing subsided

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a bit, the old man looked at Hari and asked, ‘Bhai, you understood what I said, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes, bha. We will keep your word.’ ‘Please do this bit for me. You will have to convince our relatives who might object to such a deviation in matters of rituals.’ ‘No worries, bha. All of them will have to fall in line. It is my word, word of the son of a brave father.’ As he held his father’s hand, Hari’s voice quivered, his eyes overcome by mirages. The note of firm conviction in his son’s voice was an absolute assurance to the old man. His face instantly lit up. ‘Okay, bhai. Then you may send for our relatives and whoever else you want to summon. Time to open the third eye, son. Goodbye.’ Shiva Pandyo gently closed his eyes. Hari’s gaze ran over the serenity and brilliance on his father’s face and got transfixed on the third eye which seemed to stare back at him. A flat-chested pigeon flapped its way to the bough of the neem tree, opened one of its wings and began to peck vigorously at its wingpit.

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is expensive pen danced errantly on the artistic letterhead, forming stark doodles against the deathly pallor of the thick glossy paper. Dr Parikh, the letters that stood brilliantly embossed on the corner of the prescription paper, and Dr Parikh, the man, who was scribbling medication for his personal ailment in hieroglyphs, were two different entities today, two different identities. Was this ailment a spreading canker or a terminal disease beyond treatment? In a moment, everything before his eyes turned hazy and hard, opaque and obscene. ‘Can Bhala’s Dayo morph himself into Devendra, Dr Devendra Parikh? Or is he doomed forever to the life and identity of Dayo? What the hell . . .’ Dr Parikh mumbled and lifted his head, which was buried in the prescription pad, to look at the wall clock. The second’s hand in the classy electronic clock steadily jerked its way ahead, even the minute’s hand moved with a jolt intermittently, but the hour’s hand was frozen, stark and still. Rigid as the time itself. The 118

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doctor could not help but smile at the odd semantics he was doing at this unearthly hour. The minute’s hand shuddered again, this time causing the five o’clock alarm to go off. ‘O my God! It’s five already.’ He would get up at five o’clock every day, come hell or high water. He struggled to remember the day when this unwritten rule of his life had been breached, even accidentally. Never did he need an alarm clock to wake up. But was ‘wake-up’ the right word to use today when he had not slept the whole night, not a wink? With the thought of sleep, words of Hemraj, the Chaudhary Patel of his village, rumbled in his mind. ‘No . . . we are not thirsty . . . yes, not thirsty.’ ‘Bloody . . . the world dreams of going to the moon. And just look at what these louts are stuck up with. Utter nonsense!’ The doctor wrenched his mind away from the bog it was getting sucked into and heaved himself out of his comfy chair. For a while, he kept keenly gazing at the pad, at the overlay of crisscrossing, intersecting lines, falling in and out with others, flying over and sneaking under one another. What a tangled mess it was! As tangled as . . . He craned his neck, ran a glance at himself from the bottom up and got startled. He had not changed his office clothes since late last night. Walking up to the wash basin, he took out his toothbrush from the plastic basket nailed to the wall. Ran his thumb over its bristles that, it seemed, had hardened unusually overnight. He stretched out his hand for the paste just when his eyes caught sight of his image in the mirror. He leaned forward a bit to

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look more closely at himself, eye to eye with his mirror image. Several squiggly red lines, as if straight from the doodles he had drawn on his letterhead, had appeared on the sclera of his eyes. He felt as if they were on fire. A thin moist film oozed up and blurred his vision as he kept staring at himself without batting his eyelids. ‘Oh god . . . a night without sleeping for a sec . . . my bad.’ Why this toothbrush then? The question cropped up in his mind and died down just as quickly when he thought, ‘But the mouth has to be cleaned, anyway.’ He squeezed out a line of paste onto the bristles and began to gaze pointedly at his face. Round face with pink-hewed puffy cheeks. Big round reddish eyes. Aquiline, symmetrical nose. Slim pinkish pair of lips and fair complexion. He screwed up his eyes and began to look clinically at his face as if in search of something that he had not noticed earlier. He kept blinking for a while. ‘Hmm . . . Nothing is amiss here. What’s wrong with this face? Then why this . . . the same old boorishness after all these years?’ Shaking his head in disbelief, he moved away from the mirror, sat back in the chair and began to look mockingly at the refrigerator stationed on its left. A hazy flash in his head made him squirm uncomfortably. Getting up, he practically rushed to open the door to his room and came out into the lobby space which was enclosed by a waist-high parapet wall and a star-studded sky. In the veranda below, an electric bulb burned dimly. Standing on the second floor of the PG hostel, holding the doorframe of Room No. 40 with one hand was the most mundane thing to do, he thought. Nothing is ethereal

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about his existence at this moment except for this tenderly breaking dawn. He took a couple of steps forward, soaked the beauty of the dissipating night and turned around. His eyes fell on the nameplate fixed next to the doorframe. ‘Dr D.B. Parikh’. Yes, Dr D.B. Parikh. Not an iota of doubt about it. The name stood out on its own. ‘Then?’ he wondered. He turned around in a fluster and stood holding the parapet wall. The veranda below, awash with the light of the bulb, glowed gently. At the far end of the veranda was a door that led out on the road. In a corner adjacent to it stood a water tap mounted on an iron pipe. The tap, though turned off, leaked a tad and hesitant drops of water trickled from its mouth at regular intervals. The doctor looked lost as he kept staring at the tap for long, unusually long. Just then, a bumblebee buzzed in from nowhere and began to fly around the mouth of the tap, bringing his reverie to an end. He went into his room and slumped on the chair, again. ‘Parikh saheb! Why are the doors of your room open?’ the brahmin cook of the hostel peeped in holding a tray, carrying tea and breakfast, in his hands. ‘You are still sitting tight with your toothbrush in hand. Saheb, it’s half past five already.’ The garrulous cook’s mention of time startled the doctor. ‘Five thirty? Too late, isn’t it?’ The doctor looked blankly at the cook who nodded uncomprehendingly. ‘Oh, maharaj! It’s you. Where is that boy?’ ‘One can’t bank on these tribal boys. If today they are here, god knows where they will be tomorrow. But I am always there to look after you.’

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Maharaj smiled obsequiously. The doctor smiled back, but it was a rather drab, half-hearted smile. ‘You got ready pretty early today, hanh? Going somewhere? You had some guests last night, didn’t you? They must have kept you awake until late.’ ‘Yes . . . some guests had come visiting. I have not washed yet. Just that I could not change into my sleeping suit last night.’ ‘Oh, that’s how it is. Well . . . where were the guests from?’ The question was pure poison. A streak of irritation rasped his voice as the doctor snapped, ‘Leave the tea and snacks on the table. I’ll have it after I’m done with brushing.’ ‘From their appearance, they looked like villagers. I had seen them in the veranda below . . .’ A sharp pang lacerated the doctor’s heart as he heard the last sentence that, he felt, moved with the finesse of a lancet. He winced and felt blood shooting from his eyes. In a gruff voice, informed with fresh bitterness, he almost snarled, ‘From my village. Go now and close the door behind you.’ Taken aback by this unusual exasperation in the doctor’s voice, the cook quietly left. He quickly finished brushing, launched into loud gargles, as if to vent screams smothered within him, and splashed water angrily all over his face, specifically at his eyes. Then, sat down in the chair, holding his head and massaging the temples with his fingers. The heavy throbbing of veins there seemed to keep pace with his heartbeats. His mind was in a whirl as he kept staring at the tea and snacks.

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The words, ‘from my village . . .’, seemed to hammer home truths into his head. ‘This maharaj is also a brahmin . . . He came all the way up, to my room, to serve me breakfast and those bloody . . . crooks . . . bloody Ozhas . . . no better than oxen . . .’ He grumbled and lifted his teacup. The tea had turned cold. He removed the gossamer wrinkled skin of tea with his finger and kept gazing at what looked like ice-cold, frozen tea. It had gradually taken on the deepest hue of the evening sky. Crimson red . . . blood red. He blinked several times in astonishment, but the adamant red in front of his eyes persisted. Under his baffled gaze, a curious finger dipped into the cup. Stone-cold blood . . . utterly dark, congealed, frigid. Blood that had coagulated around an invisible wound. Frozen stiff, immobile. Why the hell does it not flow? He felt a maddening urge to hurl the cup. Oh . . . oh, what has been happening to me since yesterday? Suppressing his urge, he tightened his grip on the cup as everything around began to reel. ‘Maybe because of the sleepless night,’ he reasoned behind his closed eyes. No . . . that cannot be. He had spent many a night like this reading, treating patients and so on. He gently opened his eyes which shot its gaze straight into the teacup. The tea quivered slightly and then its surface began to undulate, wave after wave, and then whirled turbulently threatening to flood the room, the hospital and everything around. He put the lid of his palm onto the mouth of the cup, closed his eyes and saw himself standing at the doors of the surgical ward. ‘Hemrajbhai! Velo has gone to summon the doctor.’

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‘Which doctor?’ ‘The one from our village. That Dayo, Bhala’s son.’ ‘Which Bhala?’ ‘That miyore . . . one who stays at the far end of the tanner street? His son is a bigwig here.’ ‘Oh, yes . . . yes. Don’t know how it slipped my mind.’ The doctor shuddered and tried to shoot up from his chair, but his body had turned languid to the point of numbness. ‘Dayo, Bhala’s son? I am Bhala’s Dayo. A doctor, of course. But still Bhala’s Dayo. The whole of the village knows me by that name. Little does it matter to them that I am a doctor,’ he mumbled and smiled bitterly. Gnashing his teeth, he thrashed his head about as if to save it from a behemoth, about to step over it. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, his body was colder than ice. ‘I am Devendra Parikh. Bhalabhai’s Devendra. Everybody knows, respects that name. For them, I am Dr Parikh . . . even for that brahmin cook. And these bloody uncivilized, ignorant chaudharis . . .’ A flurry of abuses rose to his mouth, but he clenched his jaws and stymied their flow. ‘What bloody shame that I changed my surname from Parmar to Parikh. Father had not liked it a bit and rightly so.’ Some unacknowledged string in his heart had chosen to twang away today. He would not have known the ordeal his father was made to undergo on this account but for his mother who had opened her heart during one of his visits to the village.

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‘Bhai, this change of name hasn’t gone down well with the village. Your father has had a cross to bear in that damned village head.’ ‘Why? What happened?’ ‘Your becoming Parikh from Parmar has piqued them no end. And who can put a filter in the mouth of the village? So, one day, your father ran into the village head right in the middle of the market. And what happened then was anybody’s guess. He went off: hey Bhala, you have become a full-fledged Patel, I hear. Your father asked, Why do you say so, bha? What else is left to say? Your son has become a doctor, right? And what is his new surname? Parikh. Okay. Parikhsaheb? So, you guys have turned bania, haven’t you? No more a dhe . . . now, eh? Come over and sit with us in the village square sometime. I will spread out a special cot for you, sir.’ The squirming shadow of his father, insulted right in the middle of a bustling chowk, lengthened and palled ominously over his mind. His face flushed with embarrassment. What inhumanity! How piteously the same village head, his brother Hemraj by his side, had pleaded with him standing at the door of his house with folded hands when his son was in a serious condition! ‘Doctor saheb, please save my Parathi. I do not know what plagues him. But he has been going into convulsions. Where would I carry him at this unearthly hour? Please come over and see him . . .’ The vision of the village head’s entreaties and his pathetic, distraught face disappeared in a flash. Thanks to his treatment, Parathi had recovered in a couple of

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days. The village head had admitted his mistake, then, with unusual candour. ‘Parikhsaheb, I had misbehaved with Bhalabhai. My mistake . . . I know what a gem of a man you are! Won’t you forgive me?’ The same Dayo! At least the village head realized his error, he had thought. The trace of repentance in his voice had absolved him of his sins, however unforgivable they might have appeared to his father and the community. What is worse, he had felt like giving a benefit of the doubt to that crafty man, thinking he might not have insulted his father so much out of malice as of mindless allegiance to tradition. A wry smile flickered on his face. The tea in the cup had taken on the colour of a grume now. How surreptitiously it shifted shades, this tea! Just as this blood does . . . furtively but calculatedly. Only yesterday had he instructed Dr Desai: ‘Doctor, this is my case. From my village. Take special care. It’s a case of a road accident.’ ‘Don’t worry, doctor. Urgent operation is required. Severe blood loss . . . We’ll have to go for transfusion and several bottles at that.’ ‘We have arranged for two bottles of blood!’ a worried Hemraj butted in. ‘Not enough . . . just not enough!’ Deathly pallor swept over Hemraj’s face as he heard Dr Desai’s words. ‘No problem, Dr Desai. I will donate a bottle and a couple of them can be borrowed from the blood bank.’ ‘You’ll give blood, saheb?’

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‘Why not? You are my people, from my village.’ ‘Very well, Dr Parikh’ Tears, streaming down Hemraj’s cheeks, now mocked him for his naivete, his gullibility. Derisive laughter resounded all around him. Dayo’s blood is not an anathema to Hemraj’s son. Of course, not. How would something as life-sustaining as blood know caste? So, Hemraj didn’t object to a miyor’s blood saving the life of a chaudhary. Tears welled up in his eyes that were burning with the fire of revenge. The lump in his throat, the congestion in his chest would make his heart go phut, he felt. Clenching his fists, he closed his eyes and broke out in profuse sweat all over. Agitated and dehydrated, he began to pace about in the room completely at a loss about how to diagnose, let alone, treat this complex case. His throat went dry, so shuffling his way to the refrigerator, he started drinking water in large loud swigs, straight from the water pot held over his mouth. As he thirstily drank the water, his eyes fell on the glass on the top of the refrigerator, lying there since last night, untouched. He froze and kept gaping at the apparition for a flitting moment. ‘The same glass . . . with water from the same water pot . . . that he had offered to Hemraj . . . the same Hemraj.’ A deep moan escaped his throat. ‘Have some chilled water. You must have been tired after all this running around. The operation has been successful. No worries now. He has been taken to the surgical ward and is conscious now.’ ‘All credit goes to you, Doctor saheb.’

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‘What do you say, Hemraj uncle? Of what use is my doctory if I can’t come to the aid of my friends from my own village?’ ‘Very true, bhai. Cent per cent true.’ ‘It’s been seven to eight hours. Shall I ask the cook to prepare food for you?’ ‘No, no . . . don’t feel like eating anything.’ ‘Have this water then . . .’ he held out his hand. ‘No . . . we are not thirsty . . . yes, not thirsty.’ Awkward refusals burst out spontaneously. Hemraj and the duo accompanying him almost jumped up in unison, their identical anxieties perfectly in tune with their fumbling tongues. Aghast at this unexpected encounter with reality that, of late, had begun to appear so far back in time, the doctor kept looking at the ghoulish glass. How could their collective denial, apparently so spontaneous, be so pitchperfect, so synchronous and so unanimous? It could not have been unless it was rehearsed to death, planned with military astuteness and perfected for nothing less than centuries. The cold-bloodedness of the chorus began to scald him. Returning echoes of ‘not thirsty . . . not thirsty’ filled all directions as he placed the water pot back into the fridge, his eyes still glued to the glass. Tottering up to the chair on unsure, shuddering backstep, he plonked down with a thud and closed his eyes. The silhouettes of the threesome began to dance obscenely in front of him. The horrible dance of death to the jarring rhythm of ear-blasting scoffing. The huddle of silhouettes swam out of room number forty into the lobby, down the stairs in front of his eyes. Reaching the veranda, their thirsty

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cat eyes began to scurry around for the tap poised like a mouse on a steel pipe. The plague-ridden mouse vomiting blood from its mouth. The lengthening shadows of cats swooped on the mouse one after another. Loud swigs and deafening gulps reverberated in the deepest recesses of darkness. The echoes grew louder and louder . . . ear-splitting soundwaves erupted from the veins throbbing in his head . . . shades of red and green daubed the expanse under his puffy, hooded eyes. He felt as if an unsterilized needle had been hurled into the central vein of his heart and streams of cold blood were spraying out. Scared that his heart would collapse, he rose and rushed out into the lobby, gasping and panting. Holding the parapet wall with both his hands to find balance, his parched, poppedout eyes settled on the tap that was still dripping . . . not water . . . not anymore. What he saw dripping there was cold blood, congealed blobs of blood trickling straight from his heart. He whirled around in a daze and saw the letters of his surname on the nameplate dissolve.

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s always, I was transferred to the primary school in Motipura village when I had least expected it. But what, to me, was a source of mild surprise became the cause of immense, devilish pleasure to my colleagues. ‘Great, serves him right. Now, the dhe . . . will come to his senses. People of Motipura are not so mild, you know. In not more than four days, he will be straightened up, like a tight rope.’ Behind my back, they bubbled over with sadistic delight, but on my face, they were all care and concern. ‘Motipura is a notorious village, master. Be careful. Don’t you resort to your pet antics there. It’s a headstrong village, you’d better remember.’ I could clearly see the smouldering rancour grinning behind the veil of their wise counsel. But not willing to fall for their tricks, I laughed it away decidedly, saying, ‘No worries. The world is good to one who is good himself. And hope you know this one, even ghosts turn tail at the sight of an ogre.’ Such expressly cross response was enough to put at least some of them off. As a result, they chose to wash 130

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their hands of me with their fondest fatalistic clause, ‘Let it be. My duty is to warn. If people do not listen, let fate catch up with them.’ But a close friend sounded a note of caution in good faith. ‘Master, these people are trying to scare you. The village is fine. Even the village head is not that bad, but be warned of a man called Gobarji.’ That my well-earned reputation had reached Motipura before me was something I could gather from the murmurs around me as I got off the bus. ‘Bloody master is a harijan, do you know? He is bull-headed and well-connected, they say. Keep your eyes open, folks.’ On the day I shifted my household to the weaver’s street, I saw that people would point me out to others with a cock of an eyebrow or a flat dirty glare. The whole high-strung drama was quite amusing. But then, the fact that a Dalit schoolteacher could occupy the mental space of villagers so thoroughly was for me a matter of pure pleasure, however vicarious and misplaced. As a village, Motipura was a notch above expectations, nice and clean. On its eastern end stood the primary school while the weaver’s street, where I was put up, was huddled far away on the western border. Thus, to reach the school, one had to practically cross the entire village. If one entered the village from the western end, one would first confront a vast, dusty expanse—the village chowk—that stretched off into the distance until the gigantic back wall of the village office blocked its spread. Just round the office building, a road wide enough to allow four bullock-carts a simultaneous passage forked towards the school. On the right side of the road lay a

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straggle of provision stores, a smithy, a couple of cutlery shops and a cabin of a paanwallah. A wooden bench was placed right in front of the paan shop for addicts, nogoods and freeloaders to hang around and exchange hot news, fresh scandals and scoops about village politics. However, with little traffic of traders or visitors from outside, the village bazaar sat wearing somnolent, sullen looks most of the time. On my first day at school, I should reach a bit early, I thought. Alone and without much else to do, I got ready in a jiffy and walked out in the bright sunlit morning. At the entrance of the street, Danakaka, a grandfatherly figure and still uncle to everyone in the street, stopped me for exchanging pleasantries, it seemed. ‘How are you, master? How are you settling down in our village? It’s pretty early for the school, isn’t it?’ he fired a volley of questions, making me wonder if he had thought them over in advance. ‘Surely, I will have to settle down—the sooner, the better. And on my first day at school, wouldn’t it be nice to reach a bit early?’ ‘Alright, master, go ahead. Just be careful with Gobarji in the chowk. The rest shall be fine.’ ‘What’s with Gobarji, kaka?’ ‘Bhai! Simple village folks that we are, we always tie a headgear or at least a kerchief around the head when we venture out. You are going without them, that’s why.’ ‘Oho, is that the issue? Never mind. I am a master, so I get an exemption,’ I burst out laughing, but the old man, grave concerns writ large on his haggard face, was not amused. He muttered in a solemn voice.

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‘No master. You should not blame it on me later that I didn’t warn you. Had you covered your head at least with a topi, it would have served the purpose.’ He shook his head lightly as if in the knowledge that his counsel was already lost on me. I had got the drift of what he was getting at, but I kept gawking at him innocently. ‘Master, people were talking about you in the village.’ ‘No issues, kaka. I will get one sewn, if need be. Please don’t worry.’ I tried to cheer him up. ‘Bhai, my duty is to urge and caution. Ultimately, you are the better judge of what is good for you.’ The old man paused to read my expressions and not spotting the ones he was looking for continued his harangue, now going straight for the jugular, however. ‘Mind you, master! Don’t create any trouble in the village. Live in peace yourself and let others too, okay? You are a lone wolf. What do you have to lose in case any trouble brews? But people like us will be scalped for giving you a shelter in the street.’ I felt sorry for the old man as I nodded and quickly headed off fearing the protraction of his tirade. At the same time, a bitter sense of revulsion and blind rage crept over me. I paced up, my jaws clenched in agony and my heart surging with brackish emotions. I remembered the parting advice of my former colleague. Gobarji began to overpower all my senses. A strange churning began to turn my stomach. Now that I have to cross the village on a daily basis, I will run into Gobarji sooner or later. What is there to fear? Reasoning thus with myself, I crossed the village and reached the school. There were already two teachers on the roll there and I was sent as an additional

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hand to teach students up to class four. The prospect of teaching an individual class all by myself made me jump up with delight. The new colleagues came across as enthusiastic and even co-operative. We planned out and distributed work amongst ourselves. I felt like asking them about Gobarji but then decided against it, thinking there was no point in giving people ideas. The whole day passed without any unsavoury incidents. The inevitable was already delayed by three days when, on my way to school, I heard it being said at the paan shop. ‘Who the hell is he? Oh, the bloody master who has buzzed in the village of late. What does he think, he can roam around like this just because he teaches schoolkids?’ One rowdy fellow was speaking in a gravelly voice to the paanwallah, his eyes glued to me as I passed. I stole a look at him from the corner of my eyes and knew in an instant that he was none but my nemesis. I thought it wise not to react, so I ducked my head and walked on. No point in saving a sinking scorpion, that too with one’s bare hands. Gobarji was a middle-aged but wellbuilt man with a coppery complexion, greying moustache and bloodshot eyes. Dirty clothes and a Kshatriya-style kerchief on his head. His entire being exuded a kind of supreme arrogance, one specific to a crook or streetside rowdy. I had gathered a fair amount of information about him in a short period of time; he stayed alone, away from his brother’s family, tended his farm apparently, but was more interested in brewing liquor, horseplay, fisticuffs

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and even hold-ups. I thanked my lucky stars for not having to confront him so far. For the next couple of days following that incident, he did not show up at the paan shop. But I had already chalked the strategy on how to handle him in the eventuality of an encounter. On the third day, my eyes accidentally fell on him as I was walking to school. On seeing me, the lines on his face deepened, his lips curled and his jaws clenched. As I got closer to the wooden bench on which he was seated, holding his headgear in hand, he called out in a voice that sounded like a strident blare. ‘Aey, come here.’ There was a roar of command in his tone. My heart sank. The prospect of imminent humiliation or something even worse sent a chill down my spine. But I rolled a diplomatic dice as soon as I entered his circle of social distance: ‘Oh, darbar Gobarsingh? How are you?’ The use of the epithet worked wonders on the lout who, I gathered from his expressions, was not accustomed to being addressed with this honorific. Seeing his chest puff up with pride, I pictured him in imagination, strutting around like a pigeon. The sudden windfall of ego-massage had left him visibly stunned, even petrified, and at a loss for words. He kept gaping at me like the idiot that he was. I turned to the paanwallah and took another fine shot. ‘Give a Taj-brand filter-tip to darbar.’ I casually took out a two-anna coin from my pocket and handed it over to the paanwallah patronizingly. Gobarji who looked completely nonplussed all this while, revived from coma

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with a start and asked, ‘Master, where are you from? From the city?’ The paanwallah, who was keenly following the course of dialogue, was struck by the unprecedented civility that had informed Gobarji’s mannerisms today. He held out the king-size filter-tip to Gobarji who stood up and began to examine it with an appreciative gaze. ‘No, I am from a village in the Kheda district?’ ‘Oh, you must be a krishchan then? That is why you haven’t put on a cap, isn’t it?’ There was a sharpness of razor in his tone now. ‘Not a Christian, darbar. I am a weaver. My name is Mafatlal.’ ‘Weaver . . . ya? Why have you kept this headcrop of yours unguarded? Somebody will pour dust onto it. So much for such funky strutting right in the face of the village.’ I could see that the ghost of caste-based pollution and tradition was dancing on Gobarji’s head. The situation was slipping out of hand. But the king-size was still in his hands, reason enough for a last-ditch effort. ‘Darbar, light the Taj. Bhai, please give a matchbox to darbar,’ I requested the paanwallah and stretched out my hand for the matchbox. But Gobarji lost his patience, with himself or with me, I could not figure out, and bawled out, ‘Damn you, can’t you hear? Give me a matchbox!’ Every single word of his seemed to be dripping with odium now. He lit the filtertip and began to take long, ravenous drags, within which while I thought out a ploy to deal with such open hostility. Looking straight into his eyes, I began in baritone.

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‘Let me tell you the truth, darbar. Come this side. It’s a serious matter, not for the rank and file to hear.’ I walked a few steps away from the paan shop and waited for Gobarji to tag along. He obliged unwillingly and stood at a distance but still not outside the circle of social distance. A familiar heaviness still hung in the air. ‘Look darbar! You are a mature, wise person, and so I think you’d understand.’ On seeing me take Gobarji aside and hold a private converse with him, a throng of around ten to fifteen villagers gathered and began to wait eagerly for a spectacle, their eyes prying and ears pricked up. Gobarji was still on leash, thanks to my tricks which made him feel important. But I had already made up my mind to fight it out, this way or that. ‘You are one of the frontline leaders of the village. The reputation of the village depends on your reputation, doesn’t it?’ ‘Yes, of course.’ ‘If the village belongs to you, so does the school.’ ‘True . . .very true,’ Gobarji nodded passionately and sent out wisps of smoke from his nose. ‘This school of your village is a top-rated school in the entire district. And if the master of the school looks like a foolish fogy, won’t it damage your reputation? Tell me if I am wrong.’ ‘There is a lot of bloody sense into what you’re saying, master.’ The logic of sweet talk had sunk into his fathead, but still, he was struggling to wriggle out of its restraining grip, it seemed. ‘Don’t you think a master who keeps himself neat and clean would be more acceptable to students? The

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kids of the entire village come to school. And then the government has become extremely vigilant these days. Their inspectors make surprise visits and such. If there is anything amiss, who will they hold responsible if not a village leader like you?’ ‘Absolutely, master. You’re right!’ ‘I knew, wise and mature that you are, I can share such details with you. Otherwise, such niceties would surely go over the heads of the rank and file.’ A miracle. Gobarji was a changed man, over a few seconds. Pleased with himself and out of fear of being caught on the wrong side of the government, he announced patronizingly for everyone around to hear. ‘You are right, master. Now on, go without a topi in the village, and I will see who objects to it.’ He thumped his pigeon chest and added, ‘Get going, master, you must be getting late for school. The kids would be waiting for you.’ Exulting in the success of my ploy, I walked away on agile steps.

*** The next day, on my way to school, I saw him lounging on the wooden bench. I said namaste to which he responded but consciously stopped short of saying anything further. I walked over to the shop and asked the paanwallah to give a filter-tip to darbar. ‘No, master, please don’t,’ he sprang up and grabbed my hand that I had stuck in my pocket for money. My heart missed a beat at this sudden onslaught, but then

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the fact that he had gone so far as to touch me made me happy. ‘Have it, darbar. I insist.’ ‘I will pay in that case,’ he cut in. ‘Oho . . . darbar. Why allow formalities to come between friends? Money is nothing but dirt on our hands.’ I gently freed my hand from his tight grip and gave the money to the paanwallah who let his fingers touch my palm as he picked up the coin. Gobarji lit the king-size and began to pull at it madly. I saw my fear burn away with the filter-tip. After my joining, the school had subscribed to a daily. The paper was delivered to the village by city bus. Since the village head’s house was next to the bus stand, an arrangement was made that the paper would be delivered there first, and I would pick it up on my way to school. Sometimes, one of the students would bring it over. But when I personally went to collect it, the village head would never give it to me by hand. He would stick it through the iron clamp nailed into the underside of the protruding wooden beam of the gate or simply put it on the fence of the courtyard which also served as a place for rampatar, the designated location for keeping teacups, glasses, etc. for the exclusive use of lower-caste people. Such treatment hurt me no end, but the village head was a powerful man, and I chose not to take the bull by the horns, at least until the time was ripe for it.

*** From that day after, I happened to meet Gobarji frequently, which led to the exchange of details about

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personal matters and life in general, if not to hobnobbing. However, one day, he called out to me from his adda at the paan shop, ‘Come, master, come. We need to talk.’ ‘What about, darbar?’ ‘Come over to my place today for a cup of tea.’ ‘Is there an occasion for celebration?’ ‘Nothing like that. I thought let us sit together for a while and chat away over a cuppa.’ ‘Bhale . . . I will be there. Anything else, darbar?’ ‘Clods of earth and dust . . .’ he burst out laughing partly at his sense of humour and partly because I had accepted his invitation straight away. That the whole village had taken to calling Gobarji ‘darbar’ after me was amusing to both of us, though for different reasons. At eventide, I reached his place. He pulled up a string cot and asked me to sit. With my piercing gaze fixed on him, I tried to decipher his expressions, my feet still nailed to the ground. Sensing my dilemma, he smiled cautiously and clarified, ‘Be seated, master. I am in deadly earnest. This may not be your padded, cushy school chair, but it is cosy, nevertheless. Sit down and just relax. Don’t bother about anybody in the village. I will set them right if they so much as cross your path.’ I sat down, had tea in a pair of bronze cup and saucer, spent almost an hour talking about sundry matters and then got up to leave. ‘Okay, master, thanks for coming. Do not worry your head about anything so long as I am alive. Feel free to speak if you’re facing any issues in the village.’ ‘As such there are no issues, but . . .’

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‘Would you hum and haw like this for ages or what? Gentleman, out with what bothers you. I am here, the one born eighteen-month strong from my mother’s womb.’ ‘No, nothing serious. The rest is fine, but the village head . . .’ ‘Now cut to the chase, will you? Don’t think too much.’ ‘Just that when I go to his place for the daily, he drops it from above rather than handing it over . . . for the fear of touching me. I find it so insulting.’ ‘Oh, such a small matter? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’ he tried to laugh it off, but I could see that he was burning with rage. ‘I will take it up with him,’ he muttered.

*** The day after when I went over to the village head’s house for the daily, he stopped me and blurted out without bothering with preliminaries: ‘Why master, you are the limit. You could have told me straightaway about it rather than mentioning it to that bull of a man.’ ‘What are you talking about, bha? I didn’t get it . . .’ I played stranger to the whole episode. ‘Here is your daily.’ The village head held out the roll of newspaper and kept a straight face when my fingers touched his during the transfer. A wry smile flickered on his face before he turned around and made for his mansion. Things were gradually falling into place for me in the village, and Gobarji was the reason for it. But after that

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day, the pig-head had disappeared into thin air. I hoped to run into him at the paan shop, but to no avail. Where the hell had he holed up? On the fourth day, I could not keep my curiosity on a leash and asked the paanwallah. ‘Oh, I thought you were already aware of it, master. Darbar’s heel was hurt by an inch-long thorn. And now the wound has turned septic.’ ‘How did it happen? Hope, he wasn’t out to smash hedges and bushes,’ I smirked at my clever dig. ‘Not exactly. Probably, you don’t know, but he had a dust-up with the village head the other day. The result next morning was that the head woke up to see the towering acacia on his farm stunted and darbar to see his heel pricked with a thorn,’ the paanwallah winked and broke into a rattling laughter. I got the hang of what had happened and decided to visit Gobarji in the evening.

*** After school, I went over and found Gobarji lying supine in his sagging string cot, without a stitch on except for his dhoti, which too looked more like a langoti on account of being hitched up to the crotch. The heel of his right foot, swollen like a balloon, was wrapped in a dirty cloth that had spots of some ointment on it. His features, all scrunched up in pain, eased into a welcoming smile as he saw me. ‘Praise be to Lord Rama, master. Come over this side and help yourself with that square cot.’ ‘What have you done to yourself, darbar?’ I laid down the square cot close to his and plonked down with a sigh.

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‘Nothing serious. Don’t know how but I stepped on a bloody thorn in the farm.’ ‘Was it the village head’s farm by any chance?’ I looked at him with an impish grin. He let loose a meaningful snicker. ‘I didn’t bother to pluck the thorn out and so it has turned septic. Yesterday, I applied some herbs and liquor on the wound. So, there is some relief now.’ Not knowing what to say next, I decided to go for the sting and disturb the thorn stuck in his side. ‘Darbar, shall I ask you something? Why don’t you get married? At least somebody will be there to look after you . . .’ ‘My wife made for the heavens long ago. Now, I do not feel like mounting a wedding mare again. As for kids, those of my brother are like my own. What else should a madcap like me bother about? I earn my keep and two square meals, and life goes on . . .’ he paused philosophically for a second and then added, ‘Have you ever been to my farms, master? Come sometime to the waterwheel well on the eastern side of the farm. I will arrange for food and drink.’ ‘Sure, darbar. Will see about that, but get well soon first.’ We kept chatting away till late that evening about sundry village affairs.

*** And time took off like my friendship with Gobarji. Once on a holiday, I was feeling low and listless for nothing in particular. Thinking that a stroll down the lush green farms would lift my spirits, I set out leisurely without

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a destination in mind. As I walked on taking in the beauty of trees and meadows, the cranky idea of seeing the waterwheel well Gobarji once mentioned somehow seized me. Following Gobarji’s leads, I traced my steps to the well. He was lounging against the trunk of a neem tree, a steel glass in hand carrying freshly brewed liquor, in what looked like a one-man soiree. On seeing me, a ripple of delight washed over his face and at once he offered me a seat in the string cot lying next to him. As he got up, swaying uncertainly and struggling to stand straight, I sussed out that he was dead drunk. He grabbed a bottle lying on the ground, poured out a couple of large pegs in the same glass he was drinking from and held it out to me. ‘Have it, master. Just one glass,’ he mumbled out a command. ‘No, I do not drink.’ I knew I was in a fix. ‘Don’t think I’m offering you liquor. It is Gobarji’s chalice; no son of his father in the village has the balls to say no to it. My hand cannot retract once it reaches out. You too have to keep the honour of Gobarji’s offer.’ ‘But darbar, believe me. I don’t drink,’ I was pleading now. ‘Nothing doing, master. There is no way out now. If my hand has to withdraw, heads will roll, I am telling you. You can see the billhook there on the ready, can’t you?’ Gobarji’s voice was dripping with feudal outrage over lost honour, and I was cocksure that what he had just mouthed was not a hollow threat. ‘To tell you the truth, darbar, even a small swig turns my head, drives me to mouth filthy stuff, indecencies and

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all. You will be annoyed if your dignity is hurt in the bargain.’ ‘No, I won’t. Just keep the honour of this chalice intact, then say whatever you want to. I am ready to take all bull, but the withdrawal of this hand would amount to the slaying of my nose. Hope you appreciate it, master.’ ‘If a swear word or something like that trips off my mouth?’ ‘Let it go to hell. I will take it. But if this glass is denied, I will not care for our friendship. I will chop off your head in one lethal blow.’ I took the glass, closed my eyes, clipped my nose with one hand and emptied it out in one go. My mouth turned poison bitter. I spat out twice or thrice in disgust which sent Gobarji into a bout of raucous laughter. I kept seated stock-still for a while to suggest that liquor had unleashed its effect on me though I did not feel any lightness in my head. Then, enacting a drunken stupor, I dashed the glass in Gobarji’s hand with unusual force and roared, ‘Darbar!’ ‘Yes, master.’ ‘I want to settle the hash of a goon in the village.’ ‘Tell me his name. I’ll take care of him.’ ‘No, I want to bring him down myself. He has gone out of hand recently.’ ‘Who is it?’ ‘That bloody Gobariyu. He has been creating a lot of trouble in the village. I will wring his neck if that sissy dares to face me out. You know it, darbar, right?’ Clenching the fists of both my hands, I began to wring out water from a phantom towel I was holding in my

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hands. Gobarji was seething with anger, but he kept quiet to honour the word he had given me. ‘Oye master, liquor has gone to your head. Lie down in the cot, here.’ ‘No darbar. Nothing doing. Today I will set that Gobariyu right, and you will join me. Where is that bloody billhook?’ I bumbled out of the cot looking around. ‘Leave it, master.’ He rose to hold me. ‘Now be good and lie down in the cot.’ I dropped my entire weight in his arms as he struggled to make me lie down gently and in one piece, which was precisely what I desired at that moment. I fell asleep and did not wake up for a couple of hours. At night, Gobarji dropped me off at my house in the street.

*** The next day, Gobarji met me at the paanwallah’s. ‘Why master, you couldn’t stomach a single glass?’ ‘Darbar, not my cup of tea.’ ‘You said it,’ he rattled with laughter as if reliving my antics on his farm. After that, he never dared to invite me at the waterwheel well.

*** At school, we did not believe in the cane’s law which said, ‘A cane in hand and light in the brain.’ We had won over the respect of children through love and care. Far from being scared of me, the students used to say namaste even when I met them out of school. The respect of children had

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eventually rubbed off on the elders. One day, the village head invited me inside as I went to fetch the newspaper. ‘Master, please come inside. I believe the school is running fine.’ Today of all days, I could discern a distinct streak of affection and respect in his voice. ‘Things are alright, bha. Students are learning newer things.’ ‘Very well, master. Will you come over this evening . . . if you’re not busy?’ ‘Has something urgent come up?’ the question was meant for manifesting surprise and concealing fear. ‘Nope, nothing like that. It is an invitation for a cup of tea . . . and yes, if you can bring along a few elders of your street . . .’ My surprise knew no bounds as I stood holding the newspaper at a loss for words. Probably, he read the confusion written on my face. ‘What are you worried about, master?’ ‘Ya . . . I mean, no . . . nothing. Just that . . .’ ‘Please don’t hesitate. Tell me what bugs you.’ ‘I was wondering if you’d not treat my friends the way you treated me earlier in our daily episode,’ I blurted out in one breath. ‘Don’t worry, master. Not anymore, you have won over the entire village, and you will be victorious wherever you go. Please do not embarrass me by doubting my intentions. Do come with your friends, and we will sit there, right in the middle of the hall,’ he pointed his index finger towards the drawing room of his mansion as his face crumpled with ringing laughter. I joined in.

***

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Hardly had I settled down in the village when I received my transfer orders. For a second, I decided to visit the taluk office and get it stayed but I decided against it, thinking ‘Destiny must have other plans for me.’ And then, nobody in the village seemed to be particularly aggrieved by the news. So, I packed my bags and got ready to bid adieu to the school and the village, but not before seeing Gobarji one last time. On my way to school on the last working day, I found him crouching at his favourite haunt as if he had had shivers. His face looked dreadfully withered and his shoulders, otherwise broad and sturdy like concrete planks, drooped pathetically. As usual, I called out to the paanwallah, ‘A royal filter-tip for darbar.’ Gobarji looked up listlessly, rose with visible effort and lit the fag that the paanwallah gave him. A couple of limp pulls at it seemed to have worn him out and he kept staring at the burning tip absent-mindedly. I could see that he was deliberately avoiding eye contact, so I patted him on his left shoulder, shook it slightly and asked him with theatrical gusto, ‘Is everything fine, darbar?’ ‘So, you have decided to leave . . . So selfish of you.’ I could see from those limpid eyes the maelstrom raging within him. ‘Orders are orders. I cannot disobey them, can I? In fact, I had been looking out for you. I have something to ask and a thing or two to tell you.’ ‘Go ahead, master. I am all ears.’ ‘There is a burden of debt on my head which I owe you.’

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‘Now don’t give me that bull about debt and stuff. On hearing about your transfer, I wanted to come to see you in the street. But then I lost the nerve at the last moment, so I rushed here hoping to catch you on your way to school.’ Though he was trying hard to muffle it, the ring of anguish in his voice was too distinct to be missed. ‘Arre darbar! Don’t lose heart like this. Like an elder brother, you have given me love, protection, respect and what not. I’ll remain indebted to you for the rest of my life.’ ‘Probably, I’m just repaying what I owed you in our previous births. Otherwise, a rajaput and a weaver make strange bedfellows; such a strong bond of love between the two is unheard of.’ The trash in Gobarji’s words, that he was trying to pass for philosophy, immediately put me off and, unlike before, I decided to confront him. ‘Gobarji, I do not give a damn what I was or what you were in our previous lives. Or about whether there was anything like affection between us then! All I know is the fact of the bond we share in this moment. That is all I care for. I wish you would get rid of this crap about previous lives sooner than later.’ For the first time, I had not addressed him with his favourite honorific, and he had noticed it, but still affecting inattention he asked, ‘Why, master. You don’t believe in what the sages and scriptures say?’ ‘Don’t you think we are better off without scriptures? Because with them between us, we would not have struck the strong bond you just mentioned. My faith rests in human beings . . . with flesh and blood. I believe what

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you say and do. What you have done for me and the likes of me in the village makes you a human being.’ He was listening with a deadpan face, his gaze prying open every single word shooting from my mouth. His face went from red to yellow to blue and black, a veritable polychrome. To lighten the atmosphere, I said, ‘It takes a Gobarji to turn the head of the entire village, and it takes a Mafatlal to turn Gobarji’s head.’ He looked at me in incomprehension for a few flitting moments and then burst out laughing. ‘And don’t forget master, it takes a Gobarji to turn a master’s head,’ he cocked his eyebrows mischievously suggesting my drunken bravado at his farm. I lowered my eyes and chuckled self-consciously. ‘The debt I have to repay relates to that episode only, darbar.’ ‘Which means?’ ‘You gave me a wet treat, didn’t you? Now courtesy requires that I give you a similar treat, right?’ ‘True, it’s customary . . .’ ‘And if custom is not followed, it amounts to incivility, doesn’t it? Nobody would invite you for a drink then.’ He nodded vigorously, but he’d got a hang of what this was leading to. ‘Humm . . . You know everything, don’t you?’ a wry smile played on his lips. ‘Why, having a darbar for a friend has its benefits. Now tell me if I owe you a debt or not?’ I pulled out a tenner from the pocket of my shirt, put it in his palm and kept holding his hand for a moment indicating friendly insistence. ‘Two chalices from me, darbar.’

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‘No . . . no, master, I can’t take this. This is not . . .’ Choking on emotions, he made a feeble attempt to push the tenner back, but his entire frame went limp, and he looked away. ‘Why can’t you take it, darbar? That day you invoked our friendship and showed me a billhook. I do not keep billhooks because I don’t believe in them. All I have for a friend is love, nothing but sincere love, and this is a token of that love . . . a souvenir for our lasting friendship.’ Moisture rose from my heart to my voice and eyes. The neatly folded tenner beamed like our friendship, and he clenched it in his fist. Dewdrops rimmed the petals of his eyes, and I hastened to leave, caressing his shoulder for one last time, lest wells in my eyes too overflowed.

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oft purring synced in with the soughing of the hot loo outside. A gentle jolt backwards, and the bus bound for Ahmedabad moved. She ran a discreet, searching gaze around to see whether there were enough co-passengers on the bus, that she was not all alone. There were quite a few, not to worry. That the seat next to hers was vacant was such a relief. She closed her eyes and sat resting her hands on the purse in her lap. Her fingers began to tap rhythmically on the hard leather of the purse; soothed by the rhythm, she was slowly slipping into her fond reverie. But a sharp tidick-tick, not very far away from her, jolted her out of it. The conductor was closing in, swaggering down the aisle, his leather pouch with a long belt slinging down his left shoulder and a rusty ticket case with an equally long belt on the right. Irked by the interruption, she began to look outside the window. Another tidicktick, much closer and unusually loud. The conductor snapped with his empty ticket punch almost in her face, a rather arrogant, yet customary way of posing a question to consult a passenger’s destination. The sharp noise 152

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went straight through her eardrums, like a bullet, and blew her nerves. She purchased the ticket, put it safely in her purse and relapsed into her fantasy, the unconscious tap-tapping on her purse playing a musical escort. The continuous clatter of the rickety state transport bus and the rustle of the hot wind blowing in through the window seemed to clarify the vision she had been having of late. The convocation ceremony of some university. Students standing in neat rows wearing black robes and square academic caps with a snow-white tassel. Upon announcement of their names, they would mount the stage one by one from one side, receive their degree certificates and proudly walk down the other. All unknown faces, complete strangers, but she would try to spot herself amongst them. Faces would stream on, one after another, but she was absent, the missing person. ‘Oh, God. I’m not there,’ she mumbled, half-asleep, half-awake. The bus sped over a road bump, and the heavy thud as it landed woke her up. Her dream, she realized, was straight from a television show, her pet prime-time soap. She smiled wryly. Of all the faculties at the university, it was hers that never held a convocation ceremony. Why didn’t they hold one? The question thorned her heart. She would never be able to go on stage. Suddenly, an acute sense of deprivation washed over her and punctuated a particularly painful memory; it rekindled an acute consciousness of the stranded existence of a pariah. And what was her fault? Her birth . . . just the fact that she was born in so-and-so caste. That became the ground for discrimination, for shamelessly inflicted

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dispossession, for robbing her of her rights. She had to change her faculty, thanks to her birth. Bitter to the marrow, she closed her eyes. She had read the story of Prometheus who was punished by Zeus, so severely and so unfairly. Tied to a rock, he had to suffer excruciating pain as a huge vulture pecked at his liver by day, which grew back by night only to be eaten again the next day. What horrible punishment! What was his fault? A champion of the mankind, he stole fire from the gods and gave it to the mortals. What was her fault? She, a Scheduled Caste student, had pointed out the error of her chemistry teacher during the class. ‘Sir, there is an error in the formula, it seems,’ she had muttered. And how terribly she was humiliated in front of her classmates! ‘Supersmart that you are, why don’t you come here and teach? Oh sorry, I forgot. You want to be a doctor, don’t you?’, she didn’t realize when her teacher graduated from sly digs to plain innuendos because she had switched off, literally. Switched off because it was all too familiar; she knew full well what was coming. ‘You bloody SCs . . . You want to become a doctor? The whole civilization will go down the drain.’ He might as well have said, ‘I will see how you make it to a medical college.’ She remembered the placard hanging on the wall of her classroom which quoted Chanakya, ‘Never underestimate the power of a teacher.’ A mixture of contempt and acrimony lined her face. She spat out of the window and smiled sardonically.

***

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The bell of the bus rang, and the behemoth halted with a screech. She looked out in the east and saw a magnificent royal gate at the entrance of a village. Everybody who passed through it marveled at its architectural beauty. The name of its sarpanch, in glittering golden colour, along with those of his ancestors up to three generations, was engraved on a huge wooden plank attached to one of the pillars. Gigantic village gates were in vogue, almost every single village boasted it, she thought. At once, the animal within her, her mind, was let loose, ‘What if an SC fellow donates money for the construction of such a gate . . . ?’ Some passengers got down while a few more got in. The bus moved on towards a fork in the road; one going east, the other to south-east. The latter had been a site of a bizarre historical development around faith and caste. As one headed along it, two similar temples, say identical twins, of the same presiding deity, separated by a single-brick partition wall, heaved into sight. The older was an upper-castes-only site; the entry of the SCs was prohibited. But the SCs too would not back out easily. Right next to the upper-caste temple, they erected a small shrine initially, which later ballooned into a splendid temple. One deity, two temples. The result of a crazy adamancy and insolent human obduracy, what else? She had been obdurate too, but in a different way; to stake her claim, and she did. A resounding slap in the face of the orthodox society, wasn’t it? She looked at the new temple and her eyes smiled softly. Hanging on with steely determination, she had finally claimed the title of ‘Doctor’. Suddenly, she heard

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a squeal of brakes; a cow was standing in front of the bus, blocking the road. The driver honked madly and cursed the rabaris for such irresponsible herding and then this god-forsaken country where, according to him, such anarchy was normal. Unbothered by the bovine road blocker or the all-too-familiar rant, the conductor kept tidick-ticking his ticket punch in the faces of the new passengers and issuing tickets. Once he was done, he announced in his deep, hoarse voice, ‘Has anyone been left out?’

*** ‘Hey, Meena, did you point out the error of H2O in the class?’ ‘H2O? Who H2O?’ she had asked curiously. ‘Now look at Ms. Innocence. Our chemistry teacher, who else?’ ‘What about him?’ ‘I heard you got his knickers in a twist. But be careful with that fellow. He can hurt, and most painfully at that.’ ‘What can he do to me? These are State Board exams. Nothing is in his hands, really.’ ‘Yes, basically he is a sissy. But our seniors do not have civil things to say about him. He does not forget and forgive easily, difficult if it is a public humiliation and impossible if it is at the hands of an SC. He always tries to put students from our category in their place. Would say, what will you gain studying so hard? You bloody . . .’

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‘Let’s see.’ She had not paid much heed to her friend’s caution that day, but one crucial point, she had missed. Marks for journal. As per the board rules, the subject teacher had to assess a student’s journal for practical work and give marks for it. The bus hit a pothole, and a violent jerk rocked her entire body. That day too, she had felt a similar jerk, the day her chemistry journal went missing in school. She had immediately figured out the ploy, the trick of H2O. She had met him with her father; her father had pleaded with him, had fallen to his feet actually. ‘Sir, if she scores less in the journal section, her dream of studying medicine will be shattered.’ ‘The sky will not come crashing down if . . .’ H2O had instantly checked himself, before adding casually, ‘ . . . There are many other branches of study like Arts, Commerce, B. Sc. . . .’ ‘She wants to become a doctor. If you help . . .’ ‘What kind of help? Do you think I have misplaced her journal? You people are just impossible. Go home and search.’ All his entreaties were of no use. They had met the school principal, government officers and so on. All in vain. The bell tinkled once again. The conductor was frenziedly tugging at the bell rope while forcing a passenger to get down, physically pushing him towards the exit near the driver’s seat. The passenger, a rustic fellow in dirty clothes, kept pleading, ‘I want to go to Ahmedabad.’ ‘Take the next bus. Get down now.’ He was literally thrown out of the bus. Outraged and helpless, he kept

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glaring at the conductor as the bus left him behind. She felt sorry for him.

*** For the first time, she had seen her father burning with helpless rage. Her mother too had felt mounting dismay, but no remedy was in sight. Amid that despair, an acute awareness of the history of discrimination had dawned upon her, a realization that she was only the latest loop in the long chain of oppression. Not even the latest, as in the moment she thought about it, a thousand other loops might have been added to the chain. Perhaps it was a legacy, like genetic deformity, that one inherited generation after generation. The injustice her father was subjected to in his college days had suddenly weighed her down with unprecedented acuteness. Her father, exceptionally bright in studies, had scored well in his board exams and secured admission to the foremost engineering college in the city. Suddenly, one fine morning, the entire city was engulfed in the conflagration of anti-reservation riots. The rioters had targeted hostels where reserved-category students boarded. Breaking into their rooms, the hooligans had vandalized furniture, books, luggage and even physically assaulted them. They had to run for their lives, leaving everything behind. Travelling like a refugee on foot, in autorickshaws, on trucks and tractors, his father had reached his village only the day after, with a few of his academic testimonials that he had been able to salvage. Unable to continue with engineering, he had to shift to

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humanities later. Enrolling in a college in his village, he had studied up to postgraduation. The sight of her father, unusually dispirited and crestfallen, had broken her heart. She had assured him, ‘Now, I’ll get the title of a doctor at any cost, even if I have to do a PhD for that. History will have to change. I’ll change it.’ Her father had smiled faintly and said, ‘Bravo, my girl!’

*** Caught in the vortex of thoughts, she had kept on sitting like a figurine for quite some time, and now her feet were on pins and needles. She stood up, stamped her feet lightly one after another on the metal floor and sat down again, stretching her feet on the seat next to hers. The result of her board exams had been a sledgehammer blow on her career; the trick of H2O had worked. The crash in the overall percentage due to obtaining just passing marks in chemistry journal had closed the doors of a government medical college for her. Admission to a self-financing college was possible, but her father would have had to pay through the nose. She, on the other hand, was fixated on that exclusive prefix before her name; she had made up her mind to create heaven on earth even if that meant an alternative heaven was created out of a dangerous obsession, like that of Trishanku. A regular Doctor of Philosophy would demand an investment of several years at a stretch and at the end of such a long journey, if she got a supervisor like

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H2O, she was done for, she had thought. Couldn’t she opt for Naturopathy or Homoeopathy? Finally, she had got admission in Homoeopathy, and the precious, broad smile had revived on her father’s face.

*** The bus halted again, despite there being no stand in the vicinity. On her right stood a timberyard and an auto garage. On the left were a makeshift juice station selling sugarcane juice and a paan shop with a shimmering face. The strips of gutka, hanging like frills on the front of the shop, shone with dazzling brilliance. The driver revved the engine up, a familiar signal for the boy in the shop to hand him over his quota of gutka. The location was nothing short of a place of pilgrimage for all municipal transport buses plying on that route; paying homage to a paan shop was customary, she figured. Perhaps as customary as it was for her to attach that coveted prefix to her name. Perhaps, not so customary. For she had worked extremely hard, as hard as she would have in allopathy, to learn the intricacies of diseases, the reading of symptoms and the labyrinthine process of diagnosis. The fact that the wellbeing, the life and the death of a living, breathing human being, rested in her hands made her extremely alert and attentive to the nuances of treatment; naturally, it had given her many a sleepless night. But she had surmounted all those trepidations and strain; she had made her mark and now was on the way to the office of the medical council to remit fees for her

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degree certificate, a flashing proof of her merit, to be framed and hung on the wall of her clinic.

*** She came back home in the evening on a returning bus. Her body was tired, but her heart was agile, raring to embark on newer journeys, explore newer terrains. The form for the degree certificate was filled out, and it was a matter of time now, a few days only. Did she fill in her address correctly? She immediately fished out the receipt from her purse and checked, word by word. Entering her room, she plonked herself on the chair at her study table and closed her eyes. As if reminded of something important, she straightened up and pulled out a drawer on her right. A case of visiting cards, lying in a long wait there, beamed at her. She opened it and took out one card. Dr (Ms) Meena Kapadia and her address underneath. She mentally tallied the address with the one she had given at the council office. The recurring pangs of self-doubt annoyed her. Nomenclature was all that was there to her society; it was a way of branding people, and how naturally she had given in to this system! The tragic irony behind how an individual’s identity and existence got reduced to a visiting card and a degree certificate made her sad.

*** A few days on edge was all it took to bring the postman to her doorstep. When she was handed the fancy, cylindrical

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case carrying the roll of her degree certificate, she felt as if she was getting it from a dignitary on a stage facing a huge applauding audience. The vision of a black robe, graduate cap and snow-white tassel flashed before her eyes. Such a long wait and such a long journey. The curse of Prometheus was finally lifted. She cried out from the main door, ‘Mummy, the degree certificate is here,’ and the entire house smiled with joy.

*** She took out a visiting card, ran her fingers over its crisp edges reflectively and tucked it in her purse. Telling her mother that she was going to see her friend, she set out hurriedly. Her steps, informed with new energy and unique spring, soon veered off in the direction of her high school. The moment she had waited so desperately for was finally here. She wanted to get back at H2O, no, get even with him in this duel of minds. She was the soldier of silent resistance, of a battle fought in isolation. Would he be there? The self-doubt she loathed so much cropped up. She will go again if he’s not there. But what if he has changed jobs or got transferred? She would get his new address and see him there. Was she taking it too personally? And what if he was no more? God forbid . . . she shuddered. At once, her joy turned into deep sadness. All she wanted to prove to him was that he was too puny to make or mar human destinies. She did not want to say anything harsh, let alone bitter or insulting. She would just give him her visiting card, and it would speak for itself; no words were required.

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Lost in her thoughts, she did not realize when she reached the gate of her school. Nothing had changed in the school, it seemed. The same lofty iron gate, probably a bit more rusted. The same old building with smoky grey walls. The sprawling playground flanked by two neem trees, their form denser and wider. The same watchman, except that his moustache and shock of hair on the head had greyed over the years. ‘Whom do you want to see?’ he asked, his indifference and arrogance intact. ‘Chemistry teacher.’ For a flitting moment, the watchman looked baffled; her heart missed a beat. ‘But he has become the headmaster now. He must be there in his cabin upstairs,’ he obliged, much to her relief. She climbed the dusty stairs and reached the cabin. Her heart was pounding. A peon was sitting on a stool just outside the door of the cabin. A nameplate nailed on the top right of the door proclaimed H2O’s name in bold black letters engraved on a golden plate. She fished out her visiting card from her purse and held it before her. ‘Dr (Ms) Meena Kapadia.’ A faint smile flickered across her face. But almost immediately a sense of strange inhibition gripped her. She would send her card in, but what if he did not call her inside? And even if he did, what if he did not offer her a seat? Wouldn’t it be adding insult to injury? She broke out in a sweat all over her body. She looked at the nameplate, kept looking on . . . and it began to shrink . . . until it was reduced to the size of a black mustard seed. She turned her gaze to look at the visiting card she was holding in her hand. It shook a bit and then began to

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enlarge beyond the periphery of her hand, the school and the village. ‘Shall I give your card to sir? He’s there if you want to see him.’ She saw the extended hand of the peon. At once, she pulled her hand back. ‘No, I don’t want to meet anyone.’ Putting the visiting card back in her purse, she quickly went down the dusty stairs.

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If Only This Truck Conked Out

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s the evening shadows lengthened and the light drained from the sky, he stood quietly by the truck, breathing the crisp, metallic scent of the early winter. A load of middle-class household chattel—cots, cupboards, kitchenware, appliances and so on—was being slowly mounted in the container of the truck, piled up carefully to ensure that no room was left between two articles, something which can damage them during the transit. Images of an empty shell without a larva and exuviae of a snake kept flashing in his mind; the philosophical idea of a soul deserting the human body too sounded relevant, though he could not figure out precisely which constituted what in the present context. Finally, the driver came out with a square cot strung with kinky cotton ropes, probably the last of the goods, and began to look for a place in the pile of goods where it could be safely tucked. Almost as old as he was, the cot was a key witness to his childhood pranks and tantrums, his youthful escapades and the diminishing lights of life’s setting sun. He would spread it out in the courtyard every evening and relax 165

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after a hard, tiring day. Over the years of co-existence, he had struck an emotional connect with the cot. A ripple of joy washed over his being as soon as he saw it. At once, he instructed the driver in an unusually loud voice, ‘Please adjust it in a corner . . . Make room for it if required. But today, I’d rather undertake this journey sitting on it . . .’ The driver shifted some of the goods here and there and made room for the cot at the dead end of the truck’s container. Since all the furniture and the luggage had been mounted, he fastened the metal shutter of the truck’s rear and locked it with an iron nail. Then he paced up to the driver’s cabin, heaved his heavy body up and slumped onto the driver’s seat. His grandchildren, who were all excited about the experience of sitting alongside the truck driver, had already huddled together in the cabin. His sons had already headed for their new residence along with their wives in the afternoon. He kept watching the truck grimly for a while. This might be the last truck of its kind in this place, he thought. After this, neither any such trucks nor a camel cart nor a hand cart would ply its way to this deserted chawl. The eruption of despairing thoughts caused him acute distress, and he tried to stanch their flow, but to no avail. Not sure since how long but, a truck would invariably rumble in the chawl every now and then, load a household chattel, goods and people, and noisily chug away; it had become a veritable symbol of displacement, a scheming, monstrous agent of migration. Every single time, he would plod up to the growling monster and pray, fervently and wishfully, that it broke down, that its engine simply failed. His mind would rage. What would become of his people, of him, if this cycle of dislodgment went on and on like this? What

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would happen if his near and dear ones kept migrating from this god-forsaken chawl? However, it was not the only kind of truck that worried him. There was another kind that, almost immediately, would roar in the chawl with a different kind of household to unload. Standing on the veranda of his house topped with corrugated tin sheets, he would watch helplessly and sigh. A different set of people, a bunch of strangers would occupy the house that once belonged to his friends, where he used to sit talking, discussing and gossiping until midnight for years on end. In no time would the house get heavily curtained; the image of Lord Ganesha on a glazed tile set in the wall above the entrance would be replaced by another with an inscription of ‘Allah’. This vicious cycle of direct, definitive replacement would intensify the tumult raging within him. He could not concentrate on his work in the office and would remain silent and sullen most of the time. He realized, he had fallen prey to a creeping sense of hatred, a deep loathing for people he had not seen or met earlier, with whom he had no truck whatsoever. He would shudder at the thought of this sentiment, so alien to him so far, so thoroughly possessing him. After all, he had spent almost four decades of his life amidst these people. He would often wonder how things changed so dramatically and irreversibly between them. Probably, he knew the reason but was too scared to acknowledge it. How he wished that this great displacement stopped . . . at any cost! He moved a bit, more from the fear of freezing into a statue than from a desire to relieve the pain in his legs. He lifted his right foot and stretched the left, but the

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turbulence in his mind would not die down. He felt as if a gathering darkness reigned all around and complete mayhem had broken loose. ‘If only this truck conked out,’ his innermost wish tripped out of his mouth in the form of a soft murmur. He quickly looked around to see if anyone had heard him mutter such stupidities. He heard a cracking sound in his chest. Had his heart missed a beat or had something really cracked? A shooting pain lacerated his heart, and he felt it would blast. Tears welled up in his eyes. Thankfully, no one was looking. He smiled ruefully. After a while, as the storm within him subsided, he ran his eyes around to see if anyone had come to see him off, to wish him well in the new place, in his new life. Earlier, a host of chawl residents would crowd around the departee; copious tears, practical advice and warm wishes would drench the atmosphere. ‘Take care of yourself. You won’t like it in the new place initially . . . But it’s your destiny . . . Can’t do much about it. Mix well with your neighbours there. We are like birds nesting together. All will be well till we are together. Once we separate, we survive only on memories and nostalgia. Torrid times these are. But no point living on in this place at a constant risk to one’s life, isn’t it?’ The sea of whirling emotions heretofore dammed up in the heart of the departing family would give way finally. On every such occasion, with tears streaming down his cheek, he would wish, ‘If only this truck conked out. How wonderful if something comes up, even a calamity, and his people had to call off their journey.’ But his wish would never realize, and the truck would rumble off. Eventually, as more and more families departed, the throng of see-offers slimmed down with the result that

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today no one was left to bid him goodbye; he was the last in the chain of mass exodus. Just then, he heard his wife’s voice, ‘I’ve locked the house and given the keys to the people next door. The truck is fully loaded now. Come, get on. Let God’s will be done. Please don’t lose heart.’ He looked at his wife for a moment, then turned his gaze to the deserted chawl and back again. ‘You get in, I’ll be back in a minute,’ he mumbled and instantly walked down to take one final tour of his chawl. Soaking in the run-down tin shacks enclosing the narrow gully on both sides, he lumbered up to his shack and stopped and began to peer with a rueful, heavy heart. A sturdy, stainlesssteel lock hung on the cheap, wrought-iron doors cut into the grill within which the veranda was enclosed. Inside, the wooden door to the drawing room was wide open. It looked as if his wife, out on her usual short errand for buying ginger, milk or some such stuff, had not bothered to lock it. For a flitting moment, he felt as if the door, carelessly left ajar, was the wide-agape mouth of the shack staring back at him. A zero-watt, incandescent bulb cast pale yellow light in the room. The light of the earthen lamp burning feebly in the alcove inside seemed to dissolve in the light of the bulb. His heart sank. The wooden shelves fixed onto the walls with iron clamps were empty and alone except for the long-faced calendar of the current year hanging underneath. It reflected the dates of the previous month; nobody had bothered to even turn over the page. The picture of the galloping horse on the calendar, its silky mane flying in wind like a fluttering flag against the background of the sea-blue sky dotted with cotton-white clouds and lush green meadows, looked completely out of place. The

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stillness of the moment, of his shack and the calendar, had crept over the horse, and it had frozen in the air, stock-still. A statue. As still as he was at the moment. As still as he wanted the truck to be, forever. A rueful smile flickered over his lips and disappeared. He dragged his feet up to his shack and placed his humid trembling hands on the grill that had rusted away and lost its sheen over the years. The grill had turned stonecold; the chill scalded his hands. He wanted to take his hands off but could not. His fleshy hands had ossified. The flame of the lamp had also turned to a golden stone. The golden light of the zero-watt bulb too had stilled. An eerie stillness reigned all around, only to accentuate the violent cyclone that had erupted within him. His eyes were riveted on his hands, his hands were dug into the grill. Slowly, the grill began to melt, and his hands began to sink, deep into a bottomless abyss of nothingness. How relieved he would be if he too got sucked into this soundless, motionless, memoryless nothingness! But wasn’t he knee-deep into the bog called life till now? The imprint of Ganesha on the wall, flanked by red imprints of hands, his and those of his wife, taken immediately after their wedding. The red imprint of the right foot of his wife on the wooden threshold of the main door as she first entered his house as a newlywed. Everything seemed to gape at him with a wry, sullen face. The golden years of his married life with its angry huffs and gentle coaxes were spent in this house. ‘Why do I have to leave all this behind? Why should I tear myself off this gully and waste away the rest of my life like flotsam on alien shores?’

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Suddenly, he felt as if he was crumbling into pieces. An effusion of anger and despair washed over him and carried him off. How many years of toil had gone into the making of this home? He had oozed like a spider to weave this web. He was lucky to have a supportive wife and obedient children who had stood by him, rain or shine. He could wriggle out of the worst onslaughts of fate without risking so much as a scratch to his self-esteem and scruples. All those events, moments, people and places were indelibly etched in his memory. The wooden door was a long-standing witness to his struggles, joys and sorrows. He had painted it with his own hands, dark blue with a running white border while the bolt glistened in bright English maroon. The colours had borne the vagaries of weather all these years but today, suddenly, they looked so dull and faded. How often had he opened and closed this door and how much time had gone into that exercise? If someone counted all the moments it took, wouldn’t it amount to a cornucopia of time? He extricated himself from the grill and looked around. The shacks in neat parallel rows looked dark and dilapidated. Life seemed to have ebbed out of them. Not long ago, they bubbled with so much zest, he recalled; young mothers shouting at their wanton kids, young boys lounging in the corner and rattling with laughter, oldies relaxing on the veranda and exchanging pleasantries with neighbours and passers-by. Several generations of every family grew up, studied, worked and lived in these shacks. But something changed overnight, and birds of a feather began to fly away. A call to attack had rung out in the east, ‘Nara-e-Takbeer . . . Allah-O-Akbar.’

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It was not the only call, however. A similar, probably a mightier roar had risen from the west. ‘Bajarang Bali ki . . . Jai!’ There was a world of difference between the two calls, but both were so dizzyingly indistinguishable. What was worse, both led to a single outcome: ‘Murder of a human being!’ A bomb went off here, a sword swished there, and the birds, the dazed pigeons, flew away. Where did they disappear? He felt an exquisite urge to let out a skyrending shriek. But not a muffled sound emerged from the void of his mouth. If he shrieked, people would brand him a lunatic. Gone are the people who had faith in him, in his wisdom and sense of justice, people who could understand him. These newcomers would certainly laugh at his pain and anguish, these faceless strangers living in shack number one, two, three and so on. He realized that he had begun to identify the shacks with their numbers. How quickly had he coped with the change, with these hard times? Earlier, all the shacks had a unique, human identity. First in the gully was Kano Babar’s shack and what a gem of a man he was! He vividly remembered the hoopla in the chawl around the time he had bought a gramophone, the first of its kind in the chawl. He would place it on his verandah and play it on full blast, from dawn to dusk. Especially, the bhajan session in the morning and the filmy songs in the evening turned out to be great crowd-pullers. People on their way in and out of the gully would invariably stop outside his shack, their heads swaying, eyes closed, and thank Kano before moving on, ‘Your bhajans make my day. You start your day on a sacred note, and the rest of it passes without a hitch.’ ‘This gramophone brings the holy city Dakor to my doorstep. Who would set out on pilgrimage now when

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every morning they get to partake in the collective singing to the glory of Lord Krishna?’ The gramophone had palpably enhanced Kano’s reputation in the chawl, he remembered. Following him, Magan Hemo had borrowed money on interest and purchased a radio. They would vie with each other to get the maximum crowd outside their shack, trying some newer tack every other day, from turning the volume up to serving lemonade to their audience. He too would attend the sessions at both the shacks so as not to offend anyone. Such wonderful times they were! He sighed. At the far end of the gully stood the shacks of two drunkards, Pello Revo and Chhagan Katori. The duo could produce a seemingly endless supply of low-grade liquor in and out of season. Respectable householders in the gully too visited those shacks occasionally to attend the call of booze. Just opposite them stayed Valo Kapadiya and Kalidas Darji. A gully housing eighty-odd shacks looked so distraught and deserted today, without Kano Babar, Dhulo Maharak, Amatho Metho. None of those kind, affectionate people could stay back after that damned demolition, the event that shook the foundations of this nation. A surge of bitterness flooded every single pore of his body, and he spat out in disgust. He looked at those dark, gloomy shacks which had been bought over by some Mohammad or a Salim. He had come over to stay here with his brothers, sisters and a bunch of puppies. The squat shrine right in the middle of the gully seemed to have been abandoned by Lord Hanuman; no drumbeats, no call for chanting of prayers were heard anymore. All one got to hear now was the call of the

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muezzin. Not that he was unfamiliar or averse to azan; in fact, he had himself visited mosques and dargahs with his ailing son several times. But today, all that sounded so alien, so otherworldly. The new neighbours never spoke to him. They just looked threateningly as if asking him to leave the place before they threw him out. He could never muster the courage to ask them, ‘Where are you from? What do you do? You know Jamal? He is a good friend.’ But he knew in the heart of his heart that times had changed drastically. No scope was left for such an exchange, one aimed at striking a bond, forging common ground, co-habiting a shared history. Not long ago, when he walked this narrow lane, he would be greeted with, ‘Hello Danabhai, how are you? Hope, all is well?’ ‘You weren’t around the last couple of days. Is everything fine?’ ‘You know what happened today? That one, you know . . .’ Such simple questions and answers. Simple joys of living. Those faces, those candid chats, those sharing of joys and sorrows, everything vanished in thin air. Everything changed, and the sheer pace of the change was staggering. In the twinkling of an eye, the grills on the verandah were draped with green curtains, goats were tethered outside the shacks and a noisome stench of droppings of poultry filled the entire lane. The sacred square for the Tulsi plant outside each shack dried out. The gathering of crones of the lane for muffled, secret gossips dispersed forever. What is left behind is a set of questions, in one’s head and in those strangers’ eyes.

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One after another, all his people left, selling away their shacks at throwaway prices. It was a collective decision to leave this place once and for all. But today, why did he feel that he wasn’t party to it? His eyes turned to the loaded truck standing in wait at the mouth of the gully. Once he boarded it, it would move on. But it will return tomorrow. Not with him but with different people, different chattel and animals on board. His home too had been sold away to an unknown person . . . a stranger, but he had been kind enough to ask him, ‘Keep on visiting us. This is still your home, okay?’ That invite was nothing more than a formality, wasn’t it? But still, it consoled his broken heart. Had everyone who left before him been offered such consolation? But how did it matter now? Tomorrow, the new owners of his house would arrive, to be greeted and welcomed by others. Everyone will ask after another’s wellbeing. Details about their ancestry, homeland, profession, tastes and acquaintances would be exchanged. In no time would the gully have a new name, a new life. One vibrant existence would be supplanted completely by another, perhaps equally vibrant existence. Why did this happen? He did not have the courage to answer that question. Perhaps, he had become too weak to face it. A disabling sense of his own vulnerability, a crushing helplessness, churned his stomach. His mouth began to water profusely, and he felt like he would throw up. The word that had been gnawing at him finally found expression. Exodus. The word had coiled around his heart like a deadly anaconda all these days. But wasn’t it the other way round? Hadn’t the days, months, years and eras clung

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to this word? He shook his head and walked back to the mouth of the lane where the truck was parked. An eerie silence reigned all around. He felt as if the city had come to a standstill. The only sounds he heard were the raspy purring of the truck that the driver had started in anticipation and a low, rhythmic sobbing. Startled, he turned around to see if someone, with teary eyes and moist heart, had come over to send him off, to wish him good luck. No humans but the sullen-faced shacks of the entire lane had thronged to bid him goodbye, their ember eyes burning with silent rage and resentment. The very next moment, they dissolved in water. ‘Arre sheth, get in quickly, otherwise, we will be late,’ a throaty voice with a streak of admonition echoed behind him. He dragged himself to the rear of the truck and saw the square string cot lying in wait for him. The thought that the seat on which he would undertake his last journey was readily laid out gave him palpitations. Rising on his toes, he grabbed hold of a side of the bedstead and began to exert to set the cot up on its side. A sudden sound of cracking wood startled him; one of the bedposts had come loose. He kept looking at his pet cot, now three-legged and limp. Casting a last look at the gully, he heaved the limp cot on the pile of goods, hurried to the driver’s cabin and silently got in. ‘Shall we move?’ asked the driver. He looked at the driver who smiled back baring his paan-stained teeth. Before he nodded, a thought like a final, dying wish flashed in his head. If only the truck conked out. The truck shifted into first gear with a thwack and moved on.

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Translator’s Acknowledgements

I have nothing to say and I am saying it and that is poetry as I need it.  —John Cage, Silence: Lectures and Writings

A

s a poet, I find it increasingly difficult to make a statement, let alone pen the poetry of acknowledgement; being an autodidact and a gadfly imparts a double whammy to that difficulty and makes the exercise seem even facile and feckless. On that account, I am afraid I won’t be able to mention many people and institutions in this section. However, I owe a debt of gratitude—and I’m not using the phrase lightly—to the two-decadelong friendship with Dalpatbhai that started in 2002, the fateful year when time froze and the ontological shift in the life of the translator occurred. The horrors of Godhra and the post-Godhra massacre made me rethink the role of translation in a society fractured not only by religious but also by linguistic lines, and that 177

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journey started with the translation of Chauhan’s short story ‘Fear’. That translatorial journey has reached its destination, though not imagined that way initially, in the form of this collection is a matter of delight. However, the other journey, premised on love, friendship and endless arguments, will continue endlessly. Thank you Dalpatbhai for being such a wonderful co-traveller. This work wouldn’t have seen the light of day without the coaxing and boxing I received from Ganesh Devy from time to time. Friendship of such a fine human being is a privilege I prize like nothing else in this world. Special thanks to Arunava Sinha and Kanishka Gupta, who reverted so zealously to a hesitant Facebook message, handheld a novice and saw the project through. I owe a thank you to Rita Kothari, not only for including Chauhan’s story ‘The Invasion’ in The Greatest Gujarati Stories Ever Told but also for all the precious insights her work in the field of Translation Studies has afforded. I can afford to forget all others but not Arun Kolatkar, Ashok Shahane, Prabodh Parikh, Kamal Vora, Hemant Divate, Ranjit Hoskote, Gulammohammed Sheikh, K. Satchidanandan, Githa Hariharan, Supriya Chaudhuri, G.J.V Prasad and Mangesh Kale, who have shaped my thoughts directly and indirectly. Finally, and most importantly, without the unremitting love and unconditional support of Mummy and Pappa, I couldn’t have come this far in life. I can’t thank Chaitali and Tamanna enough, who stood by me in all my (mis) adventures with a steadfastness that can come only out of pure love and didn’t mind when I seemed to be

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giving, nay actually gave, greater attention to my laptop screen. I am indebted to Central University of Gujarat for giving me the luxury of time to work on this project, among many other things.

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Notes

1. Dalits in nineteenth-century Gujarat, treated usually like animals, were also considered avatars of the Goddess of Epidemic. As a result, in times of famines and other epidemics, especially in Kathiawar, wandering Dalit children were picked up and sacrificed to appease the Goddess. See Mehta, 1995. 2. The organization’s mouthpiece Panther sought to raise Dalit consciousness and provided visibility to caste question by covering atrocities against Dalits in Gujarat. The fact-finding coverage of Ranmalpura violence (1974), Mandala violence (1979) and Jetalpur violence (1980) had substantial impact. 3. It’s often argued that Ambedkarism couldn’t strike deep roots in Gujarat due to the sway of Gandhian ideology over the masses. However, a number of magazines and journals with large circulation frontally attacked Gandhian methods of addressing the caste issue and pointed out holes in his theory. In 1930, Navyuvak carried an article by Swami Sevanand that urged the Dalits not to repose faith 181

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in the figure of Gandhi. He says, ‘Nobody cares for you . . . do you still believe that Mahatma Gandhi will redeem your fate? Don’t labour under that illusion. He has tied your issues up into a bundle and dumped it in a dark corner of Sabarmati Ashram, not to be touched again until independence.’ (quoted in Jyotikar, 1991: 416) 4. Akrosh brought out a special issue in 1981 condemning the Jetalpul violence. Ruffled by the acid critique, the administration came down heavily upon people associated with the journal, searching houses of Rameshchandra Parmar and Manishi Jani, the secy of Gujarat Loka Adhikar Sangh, without warrants, arresting two poets and forcing five others to seek anticipatory bail. Chauhan had to flee at midnight to avoid arrest. (personal interview, 2019) 5. The skit, which has a hoary tradition of performance in Gujarat dating back to the fourteenth century, portrays a Dalit woman as too willing to barter her body for a ghee-dripping rotlo first at the barber’s place, where she apparently goes begging for buttermilk and then at her own home where the village Brahmin ‘purifies’ her in front of and at the behest of her gullible husband. These rape scenes were enacted, Chauhan says, on a dim-lit stage behind the curtain, in sync with groans and hisses of pleasure, to titillate the worst fantasies of upper-caste men in the audience. Such representation of Dalit women in performances, aimed to entertain a caste society, served in no small ways to create a culture of sexual violence and impunity.

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6. Dalit exodus for life and survival is not an isolated phenomenon in Gujarat. While the Dalits of Biliya, Mehsana, migrated en masse to Siddhapur to save their lives at the height of the 1981 anti-reservation riots, the migration of the Dalits of Chitrodipura in 1991 was triggered by social boycott following a police complaint by Dalits. Post 1991, forced migrations have been recorded by the Social Welfare Department of the Government in Chavand, Aniyali, Porbandar etc. See, Patel, A.S. (2003). ‘Dalit’s exodus: A way out’, Indian Journal of Social Work, Vol. 64, 489–505 and Gadgekar, Roxy. (2016). ‘In Bapu’s birthplace of Porbandar, Dalits are being kicked out’, IndiaTimes. 7. In 1893–94, in what looked like a prototype of the Right to Education, Maharaja Sayajirao made primary education mandatory for all children in Amreli. Couched in the form of an ‘incentive scheme’, the state order also laid down a carrot-and-stick regime of reward and rap for parents who complied with or contravened it, respectively. Encouraged by the fact that the experiment had worked, he enforced universal primary education law across the state in 1906. (See, Mehta, 1981) 8. For an account of the context in which anti-reservation riots erupted, see, Shah, Ghanshyam, ‘Middle Class Politics: Case of Anti-Reservation Agitations in Gujarat’, EPW, May 1987, Vol. 22, No. 19/21, 155– 72. 9. Name change in their cases could as well have been a way of dispensing with typical lower-caste names,

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like Kachro (rubbish), Punjo (tinder), Khodo (stump leg) etc., which invariably indicated a disability, dispensability and worthlessness. Local belief is that such naming spares the child from the temptation of trigger-happy gods and ensures its survival. The looming fear of a precarious existence in caste society makes people cope with their subhuman life through the most convoluted logics. 10. One group of scholars, including Teltumbde, pins the cause to the economic crisis brought about by the closure of textile mills in Ahmedabad in the mideighties and the destruction of small-scale industry under the onslaught of automation and globalization. This forced Dalits to either foray into professions that were traditional Muslim bastions or straight away into lumpenization. The divide between communities was aggravated by the lure of Sanskritized identity brandished to the Dalits by Hindutva politics. Other group, including Valjibhai Patel, takes a nuanced position on the questions of Hindutvaization of Dalits and holds class-caste consciousness of Muslim elites, Muslim disapproval of Dalits’ demand for reservation and navel-gazing attitudes of Muslim clerics for the non-realization of any meaningful, strategic alliance between communities. 11. Dhedh is a conventional pejorative, a casteist slur, originally used for a person of the weaver community but later extended to all Dalit castes in Gujarat to suggest the polluting work of dragging and stripping carcasses, their caste-based occupation. Often in daily converse, the neuter gender is assigned to them

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mainly by the upper castes, and also by the superiors in the Dalits’ internal caste hierarchy, to mark their sub-humanity. 12. Kanabi, also known as Patidar, is an agrarian community that migrated in the second half of the 19th century from mainland Gujarat to the princely state of Saurashtra to work as tenants in the fields owned by local Rajputs. Land reforms in the 1950s transferred vast stretches of land to these tenants, making them landlords overnight. Cash crops like groundnut and cotton yielded rich dividends, and thus they diversified their agricultural profit into oil mills and cotton ginning industries. Eventually, they began to deal in foundries, brass industries, textiles, pharmaceuticals and even real estate. Still operating in close-knit caste councils, Patidars or Patels are one of the most powerful communities in Gujarat. 13. In Gujarati, the idiomatic expression ‘Eru Abhadavu’ signifies a snakebite. While ‘Eru’ refers to a snake, the verb ‘Abhadavu’ in no way denotes ‘to bite’. In fact, ‘Abhadavu’ denotes ‘pollution by touch (of an outcaste)’. Straddling these dual significations, i.e., touch that amounts to a sting and a sting that amounts to a touch, the story makes a powerful comment on the geography of ‘touch’ chalked out by a society bitten by the cobra of caste.

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References

Chakrabarty, Dipesh. The Climate of History in a Planetary Age. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2021. Chauhan, Dalpat. ‘I am the Witness of my History and my Literature’. Journal of Postcolonial Writing, 43:2, 2007, 133–42. Gandhi, Mohandas. Young India, Vol. III, 27 April 1921. Geetha, V. ‘Bereft of being: The Humiliations of Untouchability’. In Humiliation: Claims and Context, edited by Gopal Guru, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2009, 95–107. Guru, Gopal. The Cracked Mirror: An Indian Debate on Experience and Theory. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2012. Jadeja, Gopika. ‘Master, the country is now free: The Bhajan and Orality in Gujarati Dalit Poetry’. In Summerhill: IIAS Review. Vol. 21(1), 2015, 51–58. Jahanbegloo, Ramin. On Forgiveness & Revenge: Lessons from an Iranian Prisoner. Saskatchewan: University of Regina Press, 2017. 187

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Jyotikar, P.G. Gujarat ni Ambedkari Chalaval no Itihas 1920–70 (The History Ambedkarite Agitations in Gujarat 1920–70). Gandhinagar: Govt of Gujarat, 1991. Lyotard, Jean-Francois. Heidegger and ‘the Jews’. Translated by Andreas Michel and Mark Roberts. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1990. Mehta, Makarand. ‘Samajik Parivartan and Gujarat na Asprushyo: Oganisamo Saiko’ (Social Change and Untouchables of Gujarat: 19th Century), Arthat, No. 1, October 1981. Mehta, Makarand. Hindu Varnavyavastha Samaj Parivartan ane Gujarat na Dalito (Hindu Varna System, Social Change and Dalits of Gujarat). Ahmedabad: Ami Publication, 1995. Patel, Valjibhai. Dalit Movement in Gujarat. Interview conducted by Yoginder Sikand for NewAgeIslam. com. Available online. 2011. Satyanarayana, K., and Tharu Susie. ‘Introduction’. Steel Nibs Are Sprouting: New Dalit Writing from South India. New Delhi: HarperCollins, 2013. Solanki, Raju. ‘In Gujarat, there’s a conflict between Mahajan culture and Bahujan culture’. Interview conducted by Kuffir and produced by Ahmedabad Talkies. Available on the YouTube channel of Round Table India. 2019. Szyszkowska, Malgorzata. ‘The Listening Eye: JeanFrancois Lyotard and the Rehabilitation of Listening’. In The International Journal of Aesthetics and Philosophy of Culture, Issue 1(1). București: Editura Universității Din București. 2016.

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Teltumbde, Anand. Hindutva and Dalits: Perspectives for Understanding Communal Praxis. Kolkata: Samya, 2005. Vaidik, Aparna. My Son’s Inheritance: A Secret History of Lynching and Blood Justice in India. New Delhi: Aleph Book Company, 2020. Zecchini, Laetitia. ‘No Name is Yours until You Speak it: Notes towards Contrapuntal Reading of Dalit Literature and Postcolonial Theory’. In Dalit Literatures in India, edited by Joshil K. Abraham and Judith Misrahi-Barak, New York: Routledge, 2018, 58–75.

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