The Khatris were in power in the mohalla—they owned most of the homes and were also more well-to-do. There were three Brahmin homes: all three had priests in them, whose job it still was to partake in ceremonial feasts and beg from their patrons. For this reason, the Brahmins remained oppressed and the Khatris kept them that way.
But Chetan’s father, at a time when it was rare for anyone to make it to middle school, had studied all the way to the Matric, and been hired into service by the railway. And then, he was a famed brawler, not just in the railway but throughout the city, and no one among the Khatris could compare to him . . . But he’d become a signaller and gone off to the far-flung stations of the Northwestern Railway. His grandmother, Gangadei, had stayed behind with his newly-wedded wife, Lajwanti—Chetan’s mother.
Ever since Chetan could remember, he’d been hearing the tale of the insult they endured at the hands of the Khatris, besotted by a lust for wealth. One story he’d heard so many times that it made his blood boil despite his weakness.
The story was from the time when Chetan’s father was in Relieving and was working at Hisar Station as a substitute signaller, and Chetan’s mother, with great-grandmother Gangadei, were living in their old ruin of a house. One afternoon an uproar had broken out in the mohalla. What had happened was that Pandit Shadiram’s crazy uncle, Chunni, who wandered all about the city stark naked, had come into the mohalla from somewhere. Who knows what their neighbour Dammo, Lala Jivan Lal’s wife (who had only been there a short while since their marriage), was thinking. As she wound thread into a skein, she poked Chunni in the buttocks with her empty bobbin. He turned and slapped her—he was crazy, after all. Then Dammo beat her head and breast, and called for her husband and three younger brothers-in-law, and they beat Uncle Chunni so badly that his whole body turned blue. He somehow made it into the house as he was being beaten, and Chetan’s mother locked the door. But the Khatris didn’t stop there. They tried to beat down the door, saying they’d slap Chetan’s mother just as Dammo had been slapped. For three days (this is how Chetan’s mother told it), the three of them stayed locked in the house, and the Khatris kept coming and shouting curses at them, and great-grandmother Gangadei kept applying hot compresses to her crazy son’s wounds. On the third day, Chetan’s mother called to a Brahmin boy through the latticed air vent and asked him to fetch Chetan’s father’s friends Chowdhry Gujjarmal and Chowdhry Tejpal. They came and reasoned with the Khatris (who were actually their buddies) and helped her reopen the door to the house.
Chetan’s mother continued to burn from this insult. Chetan’s father came to Jalandhar a few months later on his way from one station to another, and his friends Dharam Chand and Mukandi Lal (Lala Jivan Lal’s two younger brothers) joined his party to drink a few sips. When Chetan’s father came upstairs in the dead of the night, Chetan’s mother told him with great anguish the tale of the insult to her and his grandmother. Drunk out of his mind, Pandit Shadiram swore at Jivan Lal and all his brothers, and the mohalla’s other Khatris, with dozens of curses related to mothers and sisters, and said that those bastards Ramanand and Chetan were born mice, the son he would sire now would be called Parashuram, and it would be he who would totally annihilate those bastard Khatris.
Those Khatris whom Pandit Shadiram proclaimed he would annihilate were all his co-feasters and co-drinkers, of course. Pandit ji sat them by his side and poured them drinks; in times of need, he even helped them with money, and always brought gifts for their wives and children when he was in town.
Pandit Shadiram had made that announcement when he was drunk, then forgotten it, but the neighbours who had heard him didn’t forget. And when Chetan’s mother was pregnant, people began to ask great-grandmother Gangadei, ‘So, Dadi, when is Parasaram due?’
Chetan’s great-grandmother would immediately curse seven generations of their ancestors. She could no longer see and she was over eighty. She always sat in the doorway of the old ruined house then. But the children and youths of the mohalla (both the boys and the girls) had such fun hearing great-grandmother’s curses that they’d ask again and again, ‘So, Dadi, when is Parasaram coming?’
And Chetan’s mother, seated in the courtyard, or the kitchen, or the hallway, would rue the inauspicious hour she’d told Pandit ji about the crimes of the Khatris; he’d drunkenly announced it to the entire mohalla and now she was stuck with it. What if she had a girl rather than a boy? And Ma would pray to God that he make her husband’s words stick this time; after this, let there be seven girls, but this time, let it be a boy . . . and she’d tell herself, ‘May he be Parashuram himself, and may he take revenge for the insult to his mother.’
And perhaps God did hear her. Parashuram was born at one o’clock in the afternoon, and the peace and happiness Chetan’s mother felt on that day in her difficult life is beyond description. By good fortune, Pandit ji was in Jalandhar at the time (he came swinging home at night via Bazaar Sheikhan). When he learned that a boy had been born in his home just as he’d announced, and that the mother had, according to his wishes, named him Parashuram instead of Anand or whatever, then he made a new announcement: that the name of his next son would be Meghnad, he who conquered Indra, king of the gods; Ravana’s son, the eloquent reciter of all four Vedas; he who had wounded Lakshman with his powers and rendered him unconscious—and that his fifth son would be Shiv Shankar, he who could open his third eye in anger and turn all of creation to ash.
In his zeal he had named all his future sons (because it was Pandit ji’s firm belief that a man should have at least a dozen sons), but at that moment, this third son of his, who was going to destroy the Khatris twenty-one times, burst out crying on hearing this terrifying pronouncement. As was his habit, Pandit Shadiram picked him up by one leg and swung him around. He wanted to test the strength of his head that very moment, like Hanuman (Son of the Wind), by dashing him against the earth, but the baby shrank back and fell silent, and feeling well pleased by this test, the father announced that he was powerful and promised that he’d make him a sharp axe with which he’d destroy all the Khatris.
Although Pandit ji forgot his drunken announcement and the next night sat with those same Khatris and drank heavily, Ma did not forget it. She not only named her fourth son Meghnad, but also named the fifth Shankar, and made her third son as powerful as Parashuram. Starting when he was very young, Ma began telling Parashuram—who was ordinarily called Parasaram—the story of that child rishi who, in order to take revenge on an insult to his father, cut off the eleven arms of King Sahasrabahu with his axe.
Whenever little Parasaram would cry, Ma would say, ‘You’re crying! But you are Parasaram. You’re Parasaram, but you’re crying! Aren’t you ashamed?’ and the child would fall silent.
One day, he broke out in sores all over his body. Chetan’s father was at that time the assistant station master at Ujar station, ‘Bugana’, near Hisar. His entire body was covered in sores, including the soles of his feet. When he moaned with pain, Ma reminded him of his name and he fell silent. Chetan was only two and a half years older than him, but even then he was amazed at the endurance and self-control of his younger brother. Those days had left an indelible impression on Parasaram’s mental canvas and had somehow given him boundless power. Chetan (he was then just five or six years old) thought that his younger brother would truly grow up to destroy those evil Khatris. As Parasaram lay there writhing in pain for days, Chetan saw that no sound came from his lips even when there were tears in his eyes. Their father managed to find medicine from somewhere. His mother washed butter in water a hundred times, mixed it with the medicines and spread it on his body. From this he found comfort.
It was in Bugana that a buffalo stepped on little Parasaram’s foot and injured it. He came home limping and shaking, and began walking around the room. His bloody foot left marks on the floor and tears streamed from his eyes, but he kept saying, ‘I am Parasaram—I don’t cry!’ . . . ‘I am Parasaram—I don’t cry!’
When
Chetan remembered that sight, he felt a lump in his throat . . . but he remembered that his mother had come running from the kitchen and when she saw her child’s wounded foot, she didn’t cry or scream. She hastily tore off the border of her sari, dipped it in water and bound his foot with it. Then she slapped her son on the back and said, ‘Yes, my son is Parasaram—he’s brave! He never cries!’ And she held him close to her breast.
*
‘If you all had been here, that bastard would never have had the nerve to grab your Chachi and drag her and hit her with shoes. You asses, why do you go to the akhara, why do you do thousands of push-ups? These muscles—this youth—when the hell are they going to come in handy? Why don’t you just go and drown if you’re going to let these impotent Khatris lay a hand on Brahmin daughters and daughters-in-law?’
Chetan’s father’s booming voice reached all the way to Khoslon ki Gali.
Arriving in the mohalla, Chetan saw that his father was seated on the plinth of the well, his legs dangling, while Parasaram and Debu stood before him like criminals. Lala Fakir Chand sat silently next to him on the plinth. The pulleys of the well (where there was an enormous crowd by now) were completely empty. There was silence in the mohalla. The Khatri men and women had shut their doors and climbed up to their roofs. Over at the gate of the Sunars, some women of course stood and watched the spectacle, and some women and children also stood in the bhuvara, as Pandit ji showered both sons (he called Debu, the son of his friend Pandit Daulat Ram the astrologer, his own son) with profanities. Parasaram had come running directly from the akhara, and earth still coated his body. He and Debu both said they had not been in the mohalla at the time. Debu said that when he’d returned from Kutchery, he’d heard the story from his mother. Parasaram said that Shankar had come to get him; if I’d been there, no one would have had the nerve to lay a hand on Chachi.
‘If you’d been here, he wouldn’t have done it, I agree,’ said Pandit Shadiram. ‘But how could they dare, even in the absence of you two? This means he’s not a bit afraid of your muscles, or he considers himself very powerful.’
As soon as they saw Pandit ji, the people in the procession placed Bhagavanti’s charpoy right next to the well and stood around him. Bhagavanti sat up, moaning, and pulled down her veil some more. On hearing this last bit, someone in the crowd called out, ‘Amichand’s become a deputy, that’s what gave Amirchand the nerve!’
‘He’s a deputy’s mother__,’ said Pandit ji, casting an extremely obscene curse in the direction of the bhuvara. ‘We’ll see what his goddamn deputy brother does; if he doesn’t come and fall at the feet of this mother of his and beg forgiveness (he motioned towards Bhagavanti’s charpoy), then I won’t let that bastard live in the mohalla. I won’t let that damn Amichand become a deputy. I’ll go myself and meet the officers and ask them if that bastard will do justice when he becomes an officer just because he passed in some competition, when he commits a crime like this against the mothers and sisters of his own mohalla.’ And Pandit ji turned towards the crowd of Brahmins, ‘You bastards, why’d you have to go to the police? Eunuchs go to the police. The goddamn police run on money. Tell me who you want arrested and I’ll spend fifty to a hundred rupees and have them breathing jail air in two days. What kind of wimps go running to the police? What you do is beat up Amirchand, lay him out, and then he, or his deputy brother, or the father of his deputy brother, goes to the police.’
And Pandit ji got up and slapped Debu, Parasaram and Hansa hard on the neck one at a time, to test their Brahmin strength. Although even the hearty wavered at a slap from Pandit Shadiram, and Debu and Hansa nearly fell over, Parasaram didn’t budge—he stayed standing, chest broad.
Pandit ji was pleased and slapped his son on the back, and Debu stood up straight and said he’d wavered because the slap was so sudden—otherwise, he was no less than Parasaram and ‘Bau ji’ should slap him now and see.
Pandit ji made a fist and raised it, and Debu stood up straight like Parasaram; the next moment, Pandit ji’s taut forearm smacked Debu on his right shoulder. Debu’s left leg wiggled a bit, but a second later, he stood tall.
Pandit ji was pleased and slapped him on the back.
‘I wasn’t paying attention before, that’s why I stumbled,’ said Debu, chest out, crowing. ‘That’s right, I’ve pinned this guy loads of times.’
He meant Parasaram, who slapped his arms in readiness for a fight when he heard what he said, and cried, ‘Come, child, let’s see who gets pinned!’
And the next moment, the two faced one another, arms outstretched, and locked hands as they began their show of strength.
Pandit ji took off his turban, put it under his arm and reclined on the plinth. He’d forgotten all about Bhagavanti and was totally engrossed in watching them wrestle.
*
Debu had been a goonda since childhood, and Ma had made Parasaram powerful but noble, so Parasaram often lacked Debu’s arrogance, thuggishness and bravado, though he did try to help him fight enemies. Every limb of Parasaram’s body was taut, and all his senses were focused on not allowing Debu to win. Debu knew that if he won, Pandit ji would not only treat him to half a seer of warm milk, but he’d also give him a rupee or two as a prize, and he was trying to pick Parasaram up and throw him down as he had before. But for one thing, Parasaram had learned all his moves by now, and for another, Debu had stopped going to the akhara and was ruining his strength loafing about as a goonda, whereas Parasaram went regularly to the akhara and did thousands of push-ups and sit-ups and had become much stronger than before.
Debu tried once to throw him; he placed both his hands on Parasaram’s shoulders, shook his arms violently and tried to knock him over. He tried to lift him and throw him by grabbing hold of his waist, and once he even tried to move away a bit and execute his famous move by ducking slightly and grabbing his ankles to knock him flat on his back, but Parasaram was watching like a hawk and rendered his every blow useless; after that, Debu was in a bit of a quandary as to what to do next. Parasaram shook his hand hard, stepped behind him and held him, and then, with lightning speed, he lifted him up and threw him down.
Pandit ji could no longer stay seated. He stood up and went over, and began suggesting moves to Debu. When Debu managed to get back up using the moves Pandit ji suggested, Parasaram grabbed his neck from below and managed to push him to the bottom again. Pandit ji suggested more moves. Again, he managed to get on top. But Parasaram brought him down again, and this time, he stiffened his legs, moving them out of his grasp, and began to rub him into the ground in such a way that he couldn’t get up again, even if Pandit ji told him a thousand moves.
Pandit ji waited a while for Parasaram to knock him out. But Debu didn’t fall unconscious no matter how long Parasaram ground him down. Then Pandit ji pronounced the two of them equal in wrestling. He slapped them on the back, gave a sermon about not fighting amongst themselves but working together to confront common enemies, and started off to Ramditta the sweet-seller’s to buy them some warm milk . . .
Just as he was going, his eyes fell upon the crowd of Brahmins standing behind him and on Bhagavanti on her charpoy, the very existence of whom he’d completely forgotten. Bhagavanti pulled down her veil a bit more when she saw him.
‘Look, blessed one,’ said Pandit ji in his booming voice, stopping by her charpoy on his way to the bazaar, ‘when you were Dharam Chand’s wife, you were my younger sister-in-law. I was the one who arranged your marriage to Dharam Chand.
‘Now that you’ve gone and set up house with Telu, you’re still my younger sister-in-law and, in our religion, a younger sister-in-law is like a daughter. You are like a daughter to me. As long as I live, no one can dishonour you. Go, sit in your home. If that bastard Amirchand and his fraud of a father don’t fall at your feet and beg forgiveness, I’ll shave off my moustaches.’
And he ordered Hansa and Shyama to help lift her up and take her to her house.
Bhagavanti stood up with their help and
touched Pandit ji’s feet, then set out for the bhuvara, moaning.
She hadn’t even reached the bhuvara yet when Telu appeared from the direction of the bazaar, lurching along with his jet-black, fat but muscled body.
Pandit ji grabbed hold of him right under the Committee lamp and asked, cursing continuously, why he’d sent his wife alone into the mohalla, and why he himself was skulking about over there and when would those push-ups and sit-ups come in handy, and that body like a dumb-bell? ‘Have you oiled up your body and done all those push-ups and sit-ups so your neighbour can beat your wife with shoes while you sit around having fun in Mandi?’
Telu stammered unclearly that his wife had come without telling him. If he’d known, he’d never have allowed it. Shyama had just told him of the incident in the mohalla and he’d come running.
‘Bastard, instead of stopping her from coming into the mohalla, why didn’t you come with her before? Does this mohalla belong to Amirchand’s father, or do you live on his estate, or do you eat his bread? The day Amirchand said he’d slaughter Bhagavanti and Telu if they came into the mohalla, why didn’t you say, show me what you’ve got, why don’t you? Go on and try to murder us . . . Why did you keep sitting in Mandi like a eunuch?’
Telu tried to stammer out a response but Pandit ji shut down his murmuring with a roar.
‘Fact is, you son of a bitch, you all are getting weak as priests! You earn your own money, you eat your own food, and the Khatris in this mohalla consider you no better than a Bhangi or a Chamar.’ And, stepping forward, Pandit ji grasped Telu’s thick neck and shoved him forward. ‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘and let’s find this Amirchand and ask him why he raised a hand against his mother and sister; since when has Kallowani Mohalla become his father’s estate?’
In the City a Mirror Wandering Page 35