Marginal Man

by Charu Nivedita

  I realized that he and his wife were determined to not clean up after themselves which meant that the sorry task of getting rid of the shit out of two arrogant chutiyas’ posteriors was mine.

  During our search for a suitable house, one of my friends who was going abroad for a couple of years suggested we move into his house. That was all very kind and good of him, but his house was in Jamuna Bagh, a locality synonymous with atrocities like rape, murder, kidnappings and robberies. My problem with Jamuna Bagh, however, was its poor connectivity. There were only two overbridges connecting urban Delhi to the eastern suburbs where there should have been ten. Due to the number of vehicles and constant harassment from the police, the traffic crawled agonizingly slowly. Some drivers who tried to overtake other vehicles created a bottleneck that would take hours to clear, and to make bad matters worse, the blaring horns sounded worse than a band of screaming banshees. All the noise and confusion would make one want to jump out of his car and off the bridge to his death (which, I assume, would be less painful). Every time I crossed that bridge, I regretted the move to Jamuna Bagh.

  Nalini’s heart was heavy with its own worries. She witnessed the kidnapping of a young girl by an auto driver in broad daylight. The girl had been walking with her parents when the driver forcibly dragged her into the auto and drove off.

  There was yet another bloodcurdling incident. A woman heard a knock on her door at eleven in the morning. Through the peephole, she saw a trio of well-built men. She enquired who they had come for. They said they’d been sent by the Delhi Electric Supply Undertaking following a complaint about a defective electricity meter. When the woman open the door, the trio barged in, gang-raped her and killed her.

  Nalini was greatly perturbed when accounts of these incidents appeared in the papers.

  “We just have to be careful. What else can we do?” I said.

  I tried to reassure her by showing her how secure and comfortable our house was. As it was on the ground level, we didn’t have to face any of the problems that accompanied sub-letting. We had ample rooms, two entrances and space for a small garden. Above all, the rent didn’t burn a hole in our pockets. I pleaded with her to adjust.

  I was befriended by Rekhi, a twelve-year-old Sikh boy as soon as we’d arrived.

  “Are you the new tenant in this house, uncle?” he asked me. “What’s your name?”

  “Why don’t you tell me your name first?” I asked.

  “I’m Rekhi. I live on the other side of the road, near the gurudwara. My house is in Block 27.”

  Looking at Nalini, I said in Tamil, “This one here seems to be a chutti paiyan.”

  Rekhi asked immediately, “Apdinna enna, uncle? Chutti paiyan?” in chaste Tamil.

  My eyebrows shot up.

  “How do you know Tamil?” I asked.

  “I study in a Tamil school, uncle,” he said. “All my friends are Tamils too. But what does ‘chutti paiyan’ mean?”

  “It means ‘intelligent lad.’ Where does your father work?”

  His face underwent a sudden change. It was like watching a light burst and go out.

  “I’ll tell you my story some other day, uncle,” he said.

  Story? A twelve-year-old with a story? I assumed his story would be a sad one.

  I made some enquiries about Rekhi’s school. It was on Lodhi Road, quite a distance from his house, but Rekhi told me he commuted in the school bus. As I was planning to admit my daughter Kalpana there, I was pleased to know this, and very relieved.

  Rekhi spent most of his time in our house, as a result of which Kalpana grew attached to him. He left only when it was dark, when his mother came to fetch him.

  I held myself back from asking him what his “story” was as I was afraid of upsetting him. Not seeing the father whose occupation I’d enquired about niggled my mind.

  One day, Kalpana said, “It’s been long since we went out, Appa. Take me out somewhere.”

  “Are you coming Rekhi? Will your father allow it?” I asked him.

  After some deliberation, the boy said, “Okay Uncle, I think I’ll tell you my story now.”

  Rekhi’s father, Sardar Sucha Singh, had been a soldier in the Indian Army and had won several bravery medals. Three months ago, he’d been sent to Punjab as part of a special contingent to control militancy in the troubled state. He was one of the heroes who’d sacrificed his life in the fierce fight between the army and the militants. The aim of the operation was the elimination of Sant Bhindranwale who had vowed to plant the Khalistan flag on Lal Quila. Sardar Sucha Singh was posthumously honored for his bravery and the nation, as an act of gratitude, gave his widow, Harpreet Kaur, a government job. However, being uneducated, she got the job of a chaprasi.

  When Rekhi had finished his story, I fished out the pile of old newspapers and began to pore over them. As I read and took in the details, Operation Blue Star did not seem like a mere sensational news item. This boy’s story – his father’s – had now become a part of my life. The report stated that 83 soldiers had lost their lives, 248 had been wounded and 30 people – including terrorists, women and 5 children – had died. The pictures of the war-ravaged Darbar Sahib affected me differently after Rekhi had told me his story.

  Those terrible numbers began to acquire flesh, blood and faces. Their deaths must have hit so many loved ones so hard.

  I couldn’t put the newspapers down. I feverishly and meticulously read every word of every article there was. I read about the terrorists, the caches of gunpowder and modern weapons they’d been in possession of, the subterranean tunnels, the warehouses, the gunning down of the soldiers who were advancing towards the Akal Takht, the government’s promise to rebuild it through a kar seva. I was completely engrossed.

  The Akal Takht – the timeless man’s throne – was the product of the efforts of so many mortals to achieve timelessness! The kar seva might have been able to rebuild the throne of the eternal one, but would it have been able to restore the forcefully snatched lives of the soldiers? Could it have returned them to the earth that should have been theirs longer?

  Rekhi was sitting beside me, staring at the papers. My affection for the boy had deepened.

  “Where do you want to go, Rekhi? Get your mother’s permission and come home this Sunday. You and Kalpana can decide where we go,” I said.

  Kalpana and Rekhi spoke to each other in hushed tones in Punjabi. Kalpana had become fluent in Punjabi after all the time she’d spent with Rekhi.

  “Let’s go to Lal Quila, uncle,” Rekhi said.

  “Lal Quila? You’ll get bored and tired there with all the walking you’ll have to do. Why not Connaught Place or Palika Bazaar? It’ll be a lot more fun and we can shop too.”

  “It was because Bhindranwale said he’d fly the Khalistan flag at Lal Quila that there was a war, and because there was a war, my father died,” he said. “That’s why I want to see Lal Quila.”

  As we talked, I realized that Rekhi had never been to the theater to watch a movie. We decided we’d go on an outing every month. Lal Quila, Connaught Place, Palika Bazaar, a cinema and a Chinese restaurant were on the itinerary.

  Kalpana, Rekhi and I went to Lal Quila. Nalini, who wished to have an oil bath, stayed behind. The children had immense fun; they jumped and ran all over the place with so much life and spirit, playing games around the Diwani Aam and the Diwani Khas. They gazed upon the glass marvels of the Sheesh Mahal with awe. They stood before the plaque bearing the inscription: The peacock throne, made of gold, inlaid with diamonds, rested here, and wondered anxiously who had taken away the throne.

  As we were leaving the place, we came across an army camp. I thought Rekhi might say something but he didn’t. He and Kalpana were in the middle of an animated conversation. With her rapid Punjabi chatter and her top-knot, nobody would take her for a Tamil child. People cast curious stares our way. We were indeed a s
trange threesome – two Punjabi-speaking children and a Tamil man.

  At seven in the evening, the sun was still in the summer sky. As the children were exhausted, I felt it would be a good idea to go to a Chinese restaurant in Connaught Place instead of catching a bus and going home. Rekhi and Kalpana were excited when they heard my plan.

  The inside of the restaurant felt like the inside of a dream with all the translucent lanterns on the ceiling, the waiters with their long hats, the fancy tableware and the soft oriental music.

  “I’ve never been to a place like this with my father,” Rekhi said without the slightest tinge of sadness.

  I couldn’t read the menu in the dim light, so I told the waiter to bring three bowls of chicken soup first.

  After discussing and debating over chole bhatura, palak paneer, kofta, naan, channa masala and aloo fry, we decided to share two plates of chicken noodles.

  “We’ve come to a restaurant that serves exotic food and you two want to settle for chicken noodles?” I asked them, surprised.

  “What I eat here is not important, uncle,” Rekhi said. “I’m lucky to just be here. My mother is a good cook, but I’ve never had the chance to come to a place like this with my parents. When he was working, he was always so busy and no matter how many times my mother told him he’d go off his head, he wouldn’t listen. He bought me whatever I asked for or he would give the money to Ma and ask her to buy it for me. Oh, and I love the soup, uncle. It’s delicious. Once, we went to see the Taj Mahal. Papa didn’t come with us, so we went with chachi who was visiting then. Every time I tried to make plans with Papa to go out somewhere, he would try to wriggle out of them. I pestered him until one day he agreed to take us to Darbar Sahib.

  “But before we could go, he was sent on the mission from which he never returned. He told us, ‘When I come back, we’ll all go together.’ But he never returned.”

  A few weeks after Sardar Sucha Singh’s death, the government would have called Rekhi’s mother to give her a medal and the man who had cut a fine and a dashing figure in his military uniform would have his name engraved on a metal plaque.

  After our trip to Lal Quila, we visited Connaught Place, Palika Bazaar and Pragati Maidan but we were unable to plan a trip to the movies as the children could not agree on a movie. The movie I was interested in seeing was not something suitable for the eyes, the ears and the heads of children. We finally decided to go to Connaught Place and watch whichever movie we could get tickets for.

  Rekhi and Kalpana were eagerly looking forward to their day at the movies on Sunday, but on Wednesday, at around ten in the morning, the whole country was rocked by the news of the assassination of Indira Gandhi. I stayed home that day because of a mild fever and Nalini had stayed back to nurse me. As the Puja holidays were on, Kalpana was supposed to have been at the crèche, but since we were both at home, we didn’t send her.

  At first, we thought that the prime minister’s death was just a nasty rumor, but we soon realized that the story was true. When I stepped out of the house, I was confronted with the sight of hordes of charged people shouting slogans in trucks and vans. I was told they were all heading to AIIMS where Indira Gandhi’s body was. Some frenzied people were torching DTC buses that hadn’t made it to their respective depots quickly enough.

  Rekhi didn’t come to our house that day. I thought of going and checking on him, but as I was unwell and tired, I decided to go the next day.

  We had no idea how long it would take for the situation to normalize. There was no milk for Kalpana and no way to get any. I didn’t know if there was enough rice. If there was some atta, we wouldn’t have to starve. I didn’t know how long Kalpana could go without milk, but I trusted we could get by with what we had – water, power and some rice. I fervently hoped that riots would not break out. The assassins were Sikhs – her own bodyguards. Would the government impose curfews and issue shoot-at-sight orders? All my life, I’d never experienced anything hair-raising until then. I’d only read of the events that preceded and followed the Partition in 1947. Tossing and turning in bed, I was wondering whether anyone spotted past curfew would be gunned down. My thoughts were pierced through by a loud scream in the distance. Rushing out, I saw that the Trilokpuri Gurudwara on the other side of the road was obscured by a wall of smoke and fire. There were shadowy figures all around the place and I was unable to process what exactly was happening. Were they trying to burn down the gurudwara? I told Nalini to lock the doors from the inside and I went to the gurudwara to see for myself.

  To my horror, I saw that four people had been set ablaze. They were still alive and running frenziedly while the mob pelted them with stones. Some were even hitting them with sticks. Suddenly, Rekhi crossed my mind and I ran to his house but it was locked. Thinking and hoping they’d escaped this hellish chaos, I returned home.

  I couldn’t sleep that night. When dawn came, I was still awake. At midnight, I watched the newly elected prime minister eulogize Indira Gandhi on television.

  “The late prime minister was not just my mother; she was mother to the entire nation. In this difficult moment, let us remember the words of our mother who said, ‘Don’t kill other people. Kill the hate you feel towards other people,’ and maintain peace and observe patience. Let us show the world what Bharat’s culture is.”

  This he said calmly and clearly. (However, the very same man, when asked about the riots at a later date, said, “When a big tree falls, the earth shakes.”)

  At daybreak, I got out of bed and made my way to Block 27. Charred bodies lay in front of the gurudwara while hundreds of people shivered inside it in the bitter cold, huddled together like refugees. Almost everyone was armed with kirpans or sticks. I walked up to a middle-aged man and asked if he was from Trilokpuri.

  “This place is not safe,” he said. “Aren’t you aware of the things that happened here yesterday?”

  He told me that the crowd in the gurudwara was from Kalyanpuri. They’d come to Trilokpuri thinking they’d be safe there as Trilokpuri had a considerable Sikh population. However, upon their arrival, they realized that Trilokpuri had suffered much more than other Sikh-populated areas.

  A deathly silence hung over all the houses in Block 27, most of which were locked. I returned to the gurudwara and to the man I’d spoken to.

  “Where are all the people in Block 27?” I asked him. “All the houses are locked.”

  I was told that half of the residents were hiding in their houses. They’d locked the front door from the outside and entered through the back door. The other half had fled to Block 28. I was confused.

  “Wait, Block 28 is full of Hindus,” I said. “How could and why would they go there?”

  “You don’t understand, brother,” the Sikh said. “It is the Hindus who have been protecting us. Many Sikh families from Block 27 are being sheltered by Hindu families in Block 28. Do you really think that the people who are trying to kill us are Hindus? No. The people who are trying to kill us are godless beasts, not Hindus. They just appeared out of nowhere in ten, maybe fifteen, jeeps. They went to each house and if there were Sikhs in it, they dragged them out and set them ablaze. I recognized those thugs. They came to me asking for votes. They’ve ensured I’ll always remember them.”

  The radio news said that army units had been dispatched to places where riots were expected to break out. A curfew had been imposed and the situation was said to have been under control. But I saw neither cop nor soldier even after two hours. The night news said that shoot-at-sight orders had been issued to deal with rioters. But who was to implement these orders? The entire political troupe was holed up in Teen Murti Bhavan.

  The day before, when the prime minister had been shot, the President was abroad. When the news reached him, he rushed back to Delhi that same evening. BBC news reporters said that his car had been stoned as it was being driven to AIIMS. If this was the plight of the Sikh President, t
hen what would the plight of ordinary Sikhs be? And then I remembered that I saw their terrible plights with my own eyes.

  Some extraordinary slogans were heard by the mob that had come to pay their last respects to the prime minister in Teen Murti Bhavan. Nobody had thought it necessary to censor these slogans.

  “Bharat ki badi beti ko jisne khun kiya, us vams ko mitayenge! Who murdered India’s daughter? We shall wipe out that race!”

  I was exhausted after not having slept the previous night. Half-asleep and half-awake, I sat before the television. Suddenly, a foul smell assailed my nostrils. It was the terrible smell of burning flesh accompanied by the smells of petrol, kerosene and diesel. I wanted to throw up. The road was littered with corpses and a man was counting them.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “A journalist,” he replied. “I’ve counted 639 bodies so far. Will you help me count the rest? Then we can tell the world how many lives have been lost.”

  Just then, one of the burnt bodies rose up from the heap and started to walk towards us. The stomach had been bound with a turban. When the turban loosened and fell off, the person’s entrails spilled out of his stomach.

  I heard a sound then. It was almost like somebody was clapping. Was this some sick play that some heartless non-human found amusing? Or was it the sound of a battle drum? One? Several?

  The sound grew deafening. I felt the earth tremor and blood trickle down my ears.

  I woke up screaming. Nalini was shaking me violently.

  “I’ve been trying to wake you up for so long,” she said. “Someone’s at the door. Let’s go see who it is.”

  It was Rekhi and his mother. As soon as I’d let them in, I closed the door and locked it.

  “What happened? I came to your house to find it locked. Where were you?” I asked agitatedly.

  Neither of them was able to speak. I brought them some water. After a while, the mother rallied and narrated her harrowing tale.