Travails with Chachi

by Louise Fernandes Khurshid

  This was Bablu ki Ma in action. I had been telling her too many stories about how politicians repeatedly plunged into elections without nursing their constituencies; about how money and muscle power were misused − successfully. The last time we talked about this she had thrown up her hands and said, ‘This kind of nonsense will continue if good men and the true sit back and continue to drive their taxis rather than enter the maidan themselves! And don’t tell me there is no place for a taxi driver in politics. I can give you a long list of people whose backgrounds are lower and certainly more dubious.’ But that had been several months earlier − much before all that hawa about hawala and hawalat had hit the headlines. When that happened from the time when Bablu ki Ma had raised her famous belan and said, ‘Khabardar! Don’t you even think of joining politics. I’ve always said it’s a dirty business. So what had brought on the change of heart now?

  It became clear shortly after. In her hand the little lady had the morning’s copy of the Savera Times. The headline declared that the prime minister would encourage young people to contest the (then) forthcoming parliamentary elections. ‘You are strong and you have a dream,’ Bablu ki Ma declared. ‘I have?’ I started to ask. But then the boys cheered. And the lady’s cookery class group clapped. And, as I stood there weighed down by marigold garlands, I could almost hear the rousing shouts of ‘Madath Singh Yadav, Zindabad!’ and ‘Madath bhai, tum sangarsh karo! Hum tumhare saath hain!’

  And it felt good.

  As the applause wound down, one person continued to clap. I turned around to see that it was my aged father who, by this time, had left the comfort of Chachi’s ample bosom. What did he think of his bahu’s latest fantasy to turn me into ‘Aaj ka MLA’? To my relief Dadu was actually smiling. And as for Ma − who had never, in the past lost an opportunity to abuse the political biradari − she seemed more pleased than perturbed. With Dadu and Ma smiling and Bablu ki Ma beaming and the ladla beta rubbing his hands with glee, I had a distinct impression that I was out-numbered.

  But, before I could get carried away, Dadu added a bit of caution. ‘If, indeed, you have a dream, beta, I’ll be more than pleased. I, too, had a dream once − about an independent India. And although that dream has been physically realized − and we are independent and free − I’m not so sure that the spirit of our struggle still roams free in this country. It’s essential, beta,’ he said, ‘that a new generation of freedom fighters emerge once again. People to fight against the stranglehold of caste, the unholy grip of cash, the terrorism of criminals. Fight the three evil C’s, beta, and you’ll be a man your father is proud of.’

  And, as he ended his little speech, Bablu ki Ma rushed forward and touched his feet and Ma surreptitiously wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. And even Bablu was moved enough to command his brigade to shout: ‘Bharat Mata ki Jai! Mera Bharat Mahaan!’

  Arre bhai, I thought, this is getting a little too serious. Even my colleagues at the taxi stand had rushed in to offer their wholehearted support and put the entire fleet at my disposal. I was not a member of any political party, nor did I salute any flag other than the national tiranga jhanda. And when had I agreed to even ask for a ticket − let alone fight? Something had to be done to cool everyone off a bit. I did what I’m told politicians are rather good at − stall for time. I said, ‘Let me return to the village and take a decision after consulting everyone. After all, how can I even move a step towards politics without consulting Tau Nakli Singh?’

  It was a delighted Tau who welcomed us at the entrance of the village. He fired six rounds into the air, painted an impressive red tilak on my forehead, and then handed me his licensed pistol and a gaudily wrapped packet. ‘What is this, Tau?’ I asked. ‘This is a well tested formula of politics.’ He said. ‘Follow it strictly and the battle is already half won. The “tilak” denotes your caste. The pistol is used by criminals but also by good men defending themselves. The packet − well, that contains a symbolic offering of cash − without which no elections can be fought.’ He must have seen me look back at Dadu because he quickly added, ‘Forget everything your old father has told you. Zamana badal gaya. Times have changed. This is the age of guns and glory. This is the age of caste and cash. And, anyway, who is your father to criticize us? It was in his own time that one of our own Indians killed Mahatma Gandhi. Violence is nothing new − even to him.’

  He had it all worked out. The first step was to get the ticket from the ‘right’ party. The next would be to work out local caste arrangements. ‘Don’t worry about our Yadav biradari,’ he said. ‘We are what people call a “kauva tek qaum”. We don’t look beyond our own community. It shouldn’t matter which party you stand from − unless you are anti-SP and Mulayam Singh puts up a Yadav against you. Discount the scheduled castes. They won’t look beyond the BSP. But, on the other hand, that revolver rani, Mayawati, only commands one faction of the SCs. So there is still some scope there. And also discount the Thakurs. They tend, like us Yadavs, to only support their own caste men. If no party puts up a Thakur candidate then the Thakurs will vote for the BJP, because they cannot stand the SP supremo and have been furious with the Congress ever since the late Mrs. Indira Gandhi did away with their privy purses. Of course there were some Thakurs who continued to vote for the Congress till recently. But they may have moved away to that break-away faction led by Thakur Arjun Singh − that is whatever was left after Thakur V. P. Singh broke away even earlier. As for the Brahmins − well, they used to be with the Congress but had been shifting towards the BJP during the Ram wave. But, on the other hand, they may also have moved towards that Arjun Singh group because of Pandit N. D. Tiwari.

  ‘As for the Muslims,’ he continued, pausing for breath and a puff on his hookah, ‘well, the Congress doesn’t have them. The BJP ought not to have them but then they did vote for the Shiv Sena during the last Maharasthra Assembly elections. So you never know. In UP, however, they will vote with the SP. But, on the other hand, they may even go over to the Janata Dal if V. P. Singh leads the campaign.’

  I tried to interrupt this ridiculous mathematics − what seemed to me to be a no-win situation for everyone − but Tau was on a roll. ‘The Shakyas are supposed to be Buddhists but they too got carried away by the Ram wave when it swept UP. They, too, will vote for the BJP. Unless, of course, some other party gives a Shakya the ticket. In which case they will vote for their own community man. As for the Lodha Rajputs − well, they are Backwards and were inclined to vote for V. P. Singh & Co. after they touted that Mandal formula. But the BJP was even cleverer. It promoted that Lodha Rajput chap, Kalyan Singh, as chief minister. And all the Lodhas were sold on the BJP. But now, of course, they are unpopular with the Lodhas because of the rift with Kalyan Singh ….’

  I couldn’t take it anymore. ‘Stop!’ I shouted. ‘Stop immediately!’ Was this what I would give up a comfortable profitable existence in Delhi for? To get into petty calculations of caste and community? To lobby for Yadav officers in police stations so that my caste-dominated booths would be safe from “capture”? To make offers of future “protection” to criminals so that they captured other community votes in my favour? To cultivate religious sants to issue fatwas to bind people down by religion? Would it be worth compromising the friendship of Gurcharan Singh and Akbar Pasha − whose communities may not vote for the party whose ticket I hold? What if all those calculations we talked of turned up BJP as the most ideal party for me? Would it be worth encouraging young lads like Bablu − average DPS-educated youth − to don khaki shorts and do early morning exercises?

  ‘Stop!’ I shouted again. ‘Stop immediately! Give me the discomfort of Chachi’s battered shock absorbers and the security of Bablu ki Ma’s arms any day. This politics business is not the life for me.’

  I yelled out to Bablu and his mother to pack our bags for the return journey. But I need not have bothered. A smiling little lady touched the feet of a beaming Dadu, while Ma wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. My aged father hugged me
, and I can’t remember when he last said to me, ‘I’m proud of your courage of conviction, beta. I’m proud of you.’ And, as we turned to leave, Bablu whispered in my ear, ‘Madath Singh Papa, Zindabad! Madath Papa aap sangarsh karo. Hum sab aapke saath hain!’

  41

  SHADES OF SAFFRON

  THE LITTLE LADY HAD BEEN HOVERING AROUND SO anxiously that even I, who indulge her no end, had started to get irritated. ‘Why can’t you leave me alone?’ I said. ‘When will you understand that bel pathar ka sherbet is not the solution to all problems?’ ‘Shall I massage your feet?’ she promptly asked. And that irritated me even further.

  What was the problem?

  As you figured, I didn’t fight the 1996 Lok Sabha election after all. But since the results came in I had been in deep depression. For five years, since the previous 1991 poll, I had been desperately hanging on to the hope that Trivediji would get through this round and become a minister in the Union Cabinet. Over five years my bank account had been going deeper and deeper in the red because this hope had kept his credit going. In 1991 he lost by 20,000 votes. This time he promised to make up and more. ‘I’ve got it all tied up,’ he said, hinting darkly at some scheme to fully utilise the three great C’s − caste, criminals and cash.

  Often I had been prompted to remind him that his own caste − Brahmins − had long started to slip away from the Congress; that he seemed to be too seedha to keep the company of criminals. As for cash − well, if he had some to spare then how about paying his taxi bills? But each time I opened my mouth he would spin fantasies of the good times to come and how he planned to reward his ‘friends’. And I would hold back.

  The annoying part is that, even after losing, Trivediji continued to be optimistic. ‘I haven’t done that badly,’ he insisted. He proceeded to point out how only five out of 85 candidates from UP had won and how as many as 71 had forfeited their security deposits. How did one convince such a man that just about saving one’s security deposit was not exactly a sign of political good fortune?

  Of course Bablu ki Ma did not let go the opportunity to say, ‘I told you so!’

  ‘The problem with you is that you are ruled by your heart and not your head,’ she complained. ‘Why don’t you lower your pride a bit and meet Chintu Khurana’s father? His party is on top of the world and cannot get enough cars together for their victory procession. So what if their flag is saffron? The colour of their money is still the same green.’

  That really rubbed it in. Dadu, of course, had been shattered by the near rout of his Congress party in UP. I, too, was upset − though more for Trivediji, whose post was riding on this result. Ideally I would have liked the Congress to score high enough to take over at the Centre and my biradari wallah, Mulayam Singh Yadav, to secure enough seats to ensure a decisive victory at the coming Assembly Elections. But, as you well know, UP let the Congress down disastrously − with a tally of only five seats out of 85. Mulayamji also fell quite flat. Where were the 35 to 40 seats in UP alone that he had been bragging about? In the end he got just 16 in UP and one other in Bihar. And Akbar Pasha tells me that his putting up candidates in Maharasthra only ensured that the BJP/Shiv Sena combine won…

  Now, I don’t share my biradari brother’s dislike of the Bahujan Samaj Party − although I find that aggressive mahila who leads them in UP rather objectionable. So even a BSP victory may have been tolerable. But for the BJP to actually win the right to speak from the ramparts of the Red Fort − that was enough to send me back into depression.

  This is why the little lady’s outburst had my mouth fall wide open. What had got into her? Never had I heard her venture a comment on politics. And one so caustic! I didn’t agree with her solution to my problem. But I did look at her with new respect.

  My instincts ruled otherwise but, with both mother and son standing over me with hands on hips, I decided to bow to the majority opinion. ‘After all that’s what democracy is all about,’ Bablu piped in, rubbing my face into it even more.

  I woke up the next morning feeling awful. But mother and son continued to be cheerful. From the kitchen smells of samosas frying in desi ghee wafted into the bedroom and from the tiny window that overlooked the road I could see Bablu actually sweeping the sidewalk. He must really want to make a good impression on his friend’s father. I first thought of being difficult − of wearing only a banian and tehmad and rubber chapals on my feet. But, as the little lady fried and the little lad swept, my zid went down the washbasin with my ten days growth of beard. I went one step further. From the depths of the tiny built-in cupboard I took out a cellophane wrapped safari suit that Chintu Khurana’s father had presented me last Diwali. What higher sacrifice could my family expect of me?

  Imagine my surprise when the man walked in wearing a crisp khadi kurta and saffron coloured angocha. ‘Bhai wah!’ the man clapped his hands and exclaimed. ‘Aap Dilli wallah finally ban gaya!’ I looked down at my shiny safari suit and glared at Bablu. What an embarrassing situation.

  When the desi ghee pedas started to get passed around I realised Bablu hadn’t briefed me on a lot of things. Apparently Chintu’s father was no longer Mr. Khurana the bijli shop owner from Bhagirath Place near Chandni Chowk. He now called himself ‘Advisor to the Minister for Energy’.

  I must say that confused me. I remember watching the swearing in of Mr. Atal Bihari Vajpayee’s cabinet on TV. I don’t seem to remember any Energy Minister being sworn in. My confusion must have shown because the suave Mr. Khurana slickly rushed in. ‘We are just waiting till the 30th of this month,’ he said. ‘When our government is confirmed in office the rest of the Ministry will be sworn in. I’ve already swung a deal with the relevant fellows. The price was just right. And anyway, who better an advisor to the Energy Minister than a bijli shop owner? That too a wholesale dealer.’

  I was horrified. I had no brief for the Congress but surely this was too much? Wasn’t it the BJP that made a tamasha about alleged horse-trading by Congressmen during that ‘No Confidence’ motion in their tenure? And now this bijli wallah − who had gone around protesting on the streets then − was blandly talking about the ‘price being right’!

  I wanted to voice my thoughts but Bijli Khurana was too full of himself. So imagine my surprise when, from his crisp kurta pocket, he pulled out another card similar to his and offered it to me. ‘You can be Advisor to the Minister for Surface Transport,’ he said. ‘This taxi driver business is not now good enough for the father of Chintu’s best friend. And anyway, who better than a DLY taxi driver − and one from UP at that!’

  ‘And the price?’ I couldn’t help asking, even though the very proposition disgusted me. ‘The price, my friend, is also right. All you have to do is give us a list of non-BJP MPs who owe you money. We only protested about horse trading. Who said anything against paying off a friend’s bad debts?’

  For a brief, very brief, moment I was tempted. I imagined myself being chauffeur-driven through the front gates of Rashtrapati Bhavan. And it felt good.

  But as I caressed the smooth laminated card with its high sounding label, something did not quite feel right. And then, suddenly, this voice in my head said, ‘Ajab teri kudrat, ajab tere khel; chuchundar ke sar pe chameli ka tel.’

  And as I looked down I could swear the tips of my fingers turned an unhealthy shade of yellow.

  It didn’t take long for Mr. Khurana to realize he was getting nowhere. He snatched the card from my hands with indecent haste and, picking up the half empty box of pedas, turned towards the door. As his back foot cleared the doorway he stuck his head in again to say, ‘Don’t think we need your miserable help. We’ve got enough people begging to join the party. Just you wait and see. Come 30th and you’ll be begging to see me.’

  It was a chastized Bablu who hovered in the background looking sheepish. ‘I swear I didn’t know what he was going to say, Papa,’ he burst out. ‘I just thought it would be a good idea if Chintu’s father got your taxi stand a steady contract from his BJP governmen
t. I thought that since Mr. Vajpayee accepted to form the government with such haste he must have pucca tied up support on the floor of Parliament. How was I to know they would be desperate enough to even enlist taxi drivers to “influence” support?’

  And it was a subdued Bablu ki Ma who followed me to bed that night. In one hand was her pride and in the other her remedy for all ills − a cold glass of bel pathar ka sherbet. How could I resist?

  A week later, as I sipped my midnight cup of adrak ki chai (the little lady had exhausted her supply of sherbet), Bablu switched on our battered colour television set. It was obvious we had got the tail end of a programme recapping the previous fortnight’s news. And as we watched the BJP’s finance minister sound off about turning around the economy and its defence minister promise increased defense spending and the smiling face of Mr. Vajpayee blandly saying that the demolition of the Babri Masjid at Ayodhya was not the result of a pre-planned conspiracy, while some unfortunate senior BJP leader from Gujarat desperately fought to keep his dhoti on, that voice again went off in my head;

  ‘Ajab teri kudrat; ajab tere khel, chuchundar ke sar pe chameli ka tel.’

  42

  THE WAYS OF THE BADLANDS

  NORTHERN WINTERS ARE BLEAK AFFAIRS, ESPECIALLY FOR our family. Because with the constant pall of wood smoke and the morning mist swirling off the rivers and streams, memories of doom and gloom dominant.

  Can we ever forget that morning of Kartik Purnima?

  Bhure, the light-eyed one, emerged from the cold embrace of the Holy Ganga, re-tying his wet dhoti and adjusting his kurta. As he waited for his nephew to turn the scooter around, they came out of the shadows. As if on signal. Lathis raised.