That was 15 years ago.
Today I have a four-figure bank account in a branch of the State Bank of India. Bablu, now a sturdy 18-year-old, has finally graduated from the Delhi Public School at R. K. Puram (second try!) and has got a sports quota admission into one of the smaller colleges in Delhi University. Bablu ki Ma houses her two gas cylinders, 165-litre Videocon fridge and colour television in a DDA flat at Munirka. And Sardar Gurbachan Singh, who has long since allowed ‘Bhabhi’ to be cannibalized, is senior partner at the DLY taxi stand where I work.
Over the years our line-up of cars has become quite impressive. Chachi is going on 15 ‘car years’. (Bablu tells me that, just as one ‘dog year’ is equal to seven human years, similarly one ‘car year’ is equal to ten human years!) Gurcharan’s ‘Bhabhi’ has been replaced with ‘Guddi’, a saucy three-year-old white Mercedes bought second hand from the ITDC. Murlidharan, from down south in Jayalalithaa land, is resisting replacing his Maruti Esteem ‘Bhagyawati’ with ‘Saraswati’ a one user three-year-old Ford Fiesta we have been offered at a special discount. The modernization process has, however, caught up with Joseph Pinto, who used to remember his Karnataka homeland through his Mahindra Bolero ‘Kaveri’ but has now switched loyalties to ‘Krishna’ − a smarty-pants Tata Innova that is especially popular with Gujarati and Bengali tourists on the Golden Triangle tour circuit. So, too, Akbar Pasha, who joined us after the Bombay riots, who has finally said goodbye to his Honda Accord ‘Kalbadevi’ through whom he used to cling to the lingering scents of his once burnt out neighbourhood. Pasha now drives ‘Nariman’, a swanky steel grey Toyota Camry and seems to attract all the posh Parsi lawyers who come up from Bombay to handle cases for all those equally posh multinational corporations. And Reddy, from Cuddapah in Andhra Pradesh, has turned in his ten-year-old Tata Sierra, ‘Godavari’ for ‘Nagarjuna’, a sturdy Hyundai Santro Xing. Over the years we have become a tight-knit brotherhood. A brotherhood of man. We share our festivals. We share our food. We share our experiences. We share our jokes. Sometimes at each other’s expense. But mostly about the assortment of people who – according to our newspapers – direct the destiny of this great land of ours. I tell you, there’s nothing like a long taxi ride to get to know what these barra sahebs are really all about.
‘Papa, why don’t you put all this down?’ Bablu said to me six months ago. ‘What better man to do so than one as well travelled as you?’ What was I to say? I suppose that in the eyes of my ladla beta, dear son, my occasional forays outside the capital city constitute world-class travel. Why disillusion him, I thought. But write? A man who ran away from his final exams – to the Tenth Standard!
‘Oh Papa!’ Bablu said despairingly. ‘If Phoolan Devi could write then so can you. Who says you have to be able to write or type to be a lekhak? Get a ghostwriter. Or what about that journalist-turned-politician who sometimes uses your taxi stand?’
‘You mean that short plump lady with the strange name, Louise Fernandes Khurshid?’ I asked.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Bablu. ‘Why not use her? I hear she’s lost her last election and since she can’t go back to journalism full time she’s bound to need the money. I’m sure she will jump at the opportunity to make an extra buck.’
So here I am. Not exactly Phoolan Devi. Perhaps a little tamer. With no blood and tears to fill in the blanks. And sometimes writing in language I barely recognize to be my own. Piloting you through some of the most exciting days of our lives. Seating you next to some of the most interesting men and women who dominate this period of political and economic upheaval.
The signs, and scions, of our times.
2
THE MISKEEN MESSIAH
‘I DON’T KNOW WHOSE TIMES YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT, BHAI saab. But I can tell you one thing, Iska toh taim ho gaya. This one’s time is definitely up!’ Bringing me bang, crash back to earth was Sweety Ahluwalia, the car cannibal, who, by this time had stripped Chachi off her upholstery and was starting to pull the seats apart, drawing from Bablu’s mother the outburst: ‘Tameez nahi hai. Besharam kahin ka, no shame at all!’
‘If looks could kill, your mother will make baigan ka bartha of him,’ I whispered to Bablu, my only willing partner in this crime. ‘Him! Who cares about that man? He’s only doing what he does best. It’s you who should be ashamed of yourself. What’s the guarantee you won’t put your wife through this humiliation one of these days?’ the irate wife retorted.
As she stooped to pick up the torn upholstery – three shades darker than the original, its velvet sheen long since gone, the corner of my eye caught a particularly bad patch. To your eye the burn mark would be almost imperceptible. But how could I forget? The memory was so deeply etched in my mind that the eyes grew moist.
It was June of 1994. One of those wretched, steaming Delhi days. Chachi had been playing up again. A journey that should have taken 20 minutes had already stretched into 45 and my savari should have been furious. Strangely, he wasn’t. That intrigued me. What kept him so cool? I wondered. Was it the crisp white khadi attire? Or some inner peace that transcended the bounds of time and space? And what was that luminous glow around his shining bald pate? Was it a mirage created by the heat and the dust? Or a halo? I was intrigued. ‘It’s not my fault,’ I said. ‘It’s this vehicle. Antiquated design. The manufacturer ought to be shot.’
‘I know what you mean,’ my passenger said sadly. ‘I once felt that way too. But since I was trying to cultivate a “Mahatma” image I couldn’t advocate violence. So I had them raided instead.’
The word ‘raid’ caught my attention. Now I realized why his face seemed familiar. I’d seen him on television. And on election posters. And riding in a formidable entourage down to No. 7 Race Course Road, home of prime ministers. Not too many years ago. Whatever had happened to him to merit this change in lifestyle? Did something happen last night that the Indian Express didn’t tell us? (Because, you’ll remember, the truth involves us all!) ‘Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return,’ he said. And the voice sounded almost sepulchral.
Was that despair talking? The dejection of a rejected public man? No, I decided. This man was enjoying his gloom. How strange. I was intrigued.
By this time we were inching our way past the intersection outside the All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS). Passing this spot always sends a slight shiver down my spine − so strong are the various memories of savaris I have brought here − sometimes to die. But my passenger, strangely enough, looked positively triumphant. ‘Tell me, Rajaji,’ I ventured, because there was a distinctly regal air about him. ‘Tell me, what makes you so pleased with yourself when the list of deaths and births displayed outside the hospital rises by the second?’
‘You people are so pedestrian,’ he retorted. (‘Pedestrian’? I thought I was a taxi driver not someone walking the footpath. But I let that pass.)
Isn’t it strange, exactly those memories of AIIMS that were painful to me were what brought the glow to my savari’s face − that frenzy of mayhem and self-immolation over the Mandal Commission Report. But while he boasted of bringing about a ‘transformation of society’ and ‘standing up for the downtrodden’ and ‘obliterating inequalities’ and all that other high-sounding stuff, I could only remember gently placing a half burnt lad on the back seat of my taxi and rushing him to the emergency ward. And I still remember wondering why he should have offered his life in such a futile manner only to bolster the political fortunes of others.
So I asked my smug savari what brought him back to Delhi after his dramatic threat six months earlier. I remember he had declared that he would take sanyas from the capital till such time as the government implemented the (27 per cent reservation of Backward Classes) provisions of the Mandal Commission report. ‘Well, as I said in my speech in Bombay and then repeated in Patna, and once again said in Farrukhabad, which was a repeat of my speech in Ghaziabad, I refused to step on Delhi soil till the first job was awarded under the Mandal formula. Now that the g
overnment has given the first job to a Backward I return in triumph. My dream has been fulfilled. My existence has been justified.’ I must confess I was a trifle confused. All the drama for just one job? But what was so special about that one job when the Congress government had already committed itself to Mandal? And how did that job become the Raja’s triumph rather than that of Social Welfare Minister Sitaram Kesri or Prime Minister P. V. Narasimha Rao? Wouldn’t it have been more meaningful to demand full implementation of 27 per cent before returning to Delhi?
I would have pressed the point further but I noticed he was getting irritated. So I said, ‘Never mind, I’m sure you have more appealing attractions to offer.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, sitting up and sitting pretty. ‘While my former boss was being kicked about and buffered (or did he say “bofored”?) I didn’t even have to exert myself to be on top. My image was, and still is, impeccable, blemishless. Not just clean. Ariel clean!’
‘But what about money?’ I asked. ‘If you are so clean and have never taken kickbacks and have never made secret deals and never met industrial giants clandestinely, how did you finance your elections? Because, you’ll agree, elections do cost money.’
‘True, they cost money,’ he said. ‘But my appeal is directly with the people. And the people have both power and money. Remember all that money and land they so generously contributed to Mr. Chandrashekar’s well being during his famous padyatra? And remember they gave my friend Devi Lal a purse of as much as rupees one crore at one public meeting alone. My appeal, you’ll agree, is more wide ranging.’ Indeed, he was right, I thought. Certainly in my native district of Etawah the power is with the people – those people who are with my powerful biradari-wallah, the clansman, Mulayam Singh Yadav. He also had a point about the people paying for star appeal. After all, had I not paid rupees five hundred this year alone to watch Amitabh Bachchan say precisely the same things on screen? This guy had a point. And he didn’t seem any less of an actor.
By this time we had reached India Gate and, to my delight, the roads crossing Raj Path were closed. Something about a great big rally about to begin. Great, thought I, diversions mean more distance and time. And a higher fare. What fun! My friend, meanwhile, was getting equally excited, his pencil brush moustache bristling with righteous indignation. ‘I will erect my platform opposition these corrupt netas, these crooked politicians and, while the ruling party parades its brand of corrupt ministers, I will show the people that politicians need not necessarily be dirty. I will parade my own lily-white men ….’
‘But weren’t there serious corruption charge against several of your own ministers when you were PM?’ I ventured. Only to be swatted down like a fly. ‘Oh, that was all trumped up. All that nonsense about gun deals and aircraft deals. There was never any proof, just allegations. It’s wrong to malign a man without having any concrete proof in one’s hand.’ Funny, I thought. I, too, had heard a lot of allegations made about something called ‘Bofors’ by none other than my sanctimonious savari. I don’t remember any proof being produced. I thought I’d raise the subject but the man looked so full of his own importance, sitting there in solitary splendour that I left well alone. In fact, I almost drove into a lamppost, so engrossed had I been with his histrionics.
We were, by now, approaching Akbar Road, a stone’s throw away from the Congress office. Chachi seemed distinctly breathless – sputtering and muttering like a chronic consumptive. This was most embarrassing – here was I taking a former prime minister of this country for a ride and my taxi was misbehaving. Most embarrassing. Even more so as it wasn’t because Chachi disapproved of my passenger and hence was throwing a tantrum. I was, plain and simple, running out of fuel! ‘Wouldn’t you like to go home instead of your party office?’ I pleaded. ‘And, anyway, why are you working past normal hours? Do you want to give government servants a bad name?’ But, to no avail.
We came to a final halt half way up Teen Murti Marg. That was it. What would he do now? Would you believe the man wasn’t even mildly perturbed? I was most intrigued. But not for long. Suddenly, out of the bushes, came a bulky, wild-haired, mustachioed man, wearing an ill-fitting suit and carrying an astrological chart in one hand and an overnight suitcase in the other.
‘Ah Pande,’ I heard my passenger exclaim. (Did he say ‘Pande’ or ‘Pandit’? I couldn’t quite catch.)
‘Never you fear,’ the man assured my friend. ‘Your Jupiter is strong and your stars are bright and INSAT 1C is in heaven and all’s right with the world.’
My curiosity got the better of me. So, while he turned around to hand the overnighter to my savari, I quickly flipped through the Finance Ministry file he had left unattended and noted the name ‘Vinod Pande’ – not that it made any sense to me. Before I could figure out who the man was my savari stepped into a shining yellow fiberglass telephone booth, which had materialized out of nowhere. There was a flash of lightning in an otherwise clear sky and – I could have sworn this only happened in those Superman comics that Bablu so avidly reads – out stepped this elegant saheb. His kurta was sparkling clean. On his head a colourful safa was elegantly bound. And across his chest was emblazoned the words ‘People’s Party: President for Life’.
And, lo and behold, along the road came a convoy of gleaming motorcycles, and one white elephant as well, topped with an assortment of bearded netas brandishing broken cycle wheels – painted green, for some reason. As they moved away an odd sten gun glinted, catching the last rays of the fading sun. And the sirens screamed and the gears ground and the convoy, plus one passenger, got ready to leave.
‘Hang on a minute,’ I shouted. (I’d got over my shock by then). ‘What about my fare?’
‘That, my dear man, will be your little contribution to the national effort,’ the saheb said. ‘When I was FM my wife gave up paan masala.’ And he waved to the convoy to begin.
And I could have sworn, when he turned back to dismiss my claim that the luminous halo I had seen earlier, had mysteriously disappeared .…
3
THE ENTERTAINER
‘CHUD YAAR,’ THE CAR CANNIBAL BURST THROUGH MY memories. ‘You, a taxi driver, are trying to tell us that you actually took a former prime minister of India for a ride? And then had the guts to ask him to pay the fare? No way, no way. Chud yaar!!’
By this time the pimpled wonder had been joined by another such loutish specimen, equally loud and equally smelly. Both slapped their fat thighs and rocked from side to side in some sort of warm up Sumo wrestling ritual, all the time laughing and repeating: ‘Chud yaar, chud yaar!’
‘But you have. You have!’ burst forth Bablu, outraged that his father was being so openly laughed at. He tried to get in a word edge-wise. But the duo had graduated to slapping their ample potbellies and guffawing and rocking from side to side and generally weren’t interested in what I had to say.
And indeed I had.
Sweety Ahluwalia sniggered. ‘Chud yaar! Chud yaar! You UP chaps are past masters at chamchagiri, sifarish and name-dropping. Next you’ll tell us you’ve even taken T. N. Seshan for a ride.’ To which his greasy spoon friend said: ‘Chud yaar! No one takes Seshan for a ride. Especially not some Yadav from the sticks of UP.’
I could only retreat into my mind again and travel with Chachi down that crowded street of that crowded South Delhi mohalla to which, indeed, I had once ferried the first of the great showmen, Mr. Election Commissioner himself.
‘You remember, Papa, don’t you?’ Bablu asked.
Indeed, how could I forget? There had been great excitement in our mohalla all week. I thought to myself, as I drove around aimlessly looking for a savari: Arre bhai, Madath, two big shots in two weeks. Last week it was that former prime minister, that miskeen massiha. Today it is this high profile election top boss. How lucky can a man get? Better hang around here. Big gatherings always mean big fares for us taxi-wallahs.
What I didn’t quite understand, however, was why the local Lion Tail Twister’s wife kept ref
erring to the event as a ‘visitation’. To be on the safe side I asked Bablu to look it up in his school dictionary. ‘She must have meant “visit”, Papa,’ my smart son said. ‘Words like “visitation” are only associated with gods and such things.’
But the lady stuck to her description. I was intrigued.
I stole a look into her shopping bags while unloading them. (I’m a helpful sort of chap. They don’t call me Madath Singh Yadav for nothing.) ‘What’s on the menu?’ I asked.
‘Sour grapes cocktails, bureaucratic sacrificial lamb, media mashed potatoes, followed by the pièce de résistance: humble pie a la Supreme Court.’ All that was a bit difficult for me to understand but a journalist standing near started to chuckle when she said this to me, so I gathered the lady had a sense of humour. But would her guest? You see, she didn’t have to tell me more. I knew whom the gods were bringing to my neighbourhood.
The actual visitation was a sight for sore eyes. I had been hired to convey the ‘exalted one’ from the offices of the Election Commission to our mohalla. It seems the man, like the great Mr. Super Ariel Clean, was particular about his image and some PR fellow had told him that travelling by taxi rather than an official car would go down well with the public.
‘Wah! Wah!’ the crowds shouted with appreciation. What simplicity! What honesty! Did I then only imagine one old man muttering: ‘What netagiri!’
Bablu ki Ma insisted on being there. ‘None of this nonsense,’ she said. This was not Thandi Sadak, Etawah. This was the big bad city and nothing on earth was going to stop her from being enlightened on the affairs of the world by the most smart, most forthright, and most entertaining celebrity since … Raj Narain! The hall (the local baraat ghar) was overflowing. I begged Chachi to excuse me for parking her next to the smelly public urinal as all other places were taken. There was an air of festivity in the room. The only people who seemed to look grim were this untidy group of journalists, whose tape recorders were picking up nothing but static, and another bunch of bush-shirted and bespectacled babus, their noses collectively out of joint. The Chief Lion Tamer picked up his whip and said: ‘Let the circus begin.’ And the Lion started to roar.
Travails with Chachi Page 2