The Ministry of Utmost Happiness

by Arundhati Roy

  I am writing this to you because in my three days time in Jantar Mantar I observed you carefully. If anybody knows where is my child now, I think it might be you only. I am a Telugu woman and sorry I don’t know Hindi. My English is not good also. Sorry for that. I am Revathy, working as a full-timer with Communist Party of India (Maoist). When you will receive this letter I will be already killed.

  At this point, Anjum, who had been leaning forward, listening with rapt attention, rocked back, looking visibly relieved. She seemed to have lost interest. But gradually, as Dr. Azad Bhartiya read on, she grew riveted again and listened without interrupting.

  My comrade Suguna knows to send this letter to you when she hears that I am no more. As you know we are banned, underground people, and this letter from me you can call as underground of underground, so it will take minimum five or six weeks to come to you through a safe channels. After I left my child there in Delhi, my conscience is very much bad. I cannot sleep or take rest. I don’t want her. But I don’t want her to suffer also. So in case if you know where she is, I want to tell you her frank story a little. Rest is for your decision. Her name that I have gave her was Udaya. In Telugu it means sunrise. I gave her this name because she was born in Dandakaranya forest during sunrise. When she was born I frankly felt hatred for her and I thought to kill her. I felt really she was not mine. Really she is not mine. Really if you see her story that I have written here, I am not her mother. River is her mother and Forest is her father. This is the story of Udaya and Revathy. I, Revathy, hail from East Godavari district of Andhra Pradesh. My caste is Settibalija which comes under BC (Backward Caste). My mother’s name is Indumati. She is a SSLC school pass. She is married with my father when she is 18 years. Father worked in army. He was older to her by many years. He saw her when he was home for vacation and fell in love because Mother is very fair and pretty. After engagement but before marriage Father was court-marshaled from army for smoking near the armory. He came to live in his village which was on opposite side of Godavari river from Mother’s village. His family is same caste, but was rich than hers. During marriage ceremony itself they made my Mother to got up from the pandal and demanded for more dowry. My grandfather had to run for loan. Only then they agreed and marriage continued. Immediately after marriage Father developed some perversions and sadism. He wanted Mother to wear short dresses and do ballroom dancing. When she refused he cut her with blades and complained she was not satisfying him. After some months he sent her home to my grandfather. When she was five months pregnant with me my Mother’s younger brother took her back to Father’s village in a boat. She was dressed in a very good sari and jewelry and took two silver pots of sweets and twenty-five new saris for her mother-in-law. Father was not there in the house. In-laws refused to open the door and came out and kicked the pot of sweets. Mother felt very much ashamed. On the way back, in middle of the river she taked off her jewelry and jumped from the boat. I was in her stomach five months then. Boatman saved her and took her home. I was born in my maternal grandfather’s house. During pregnancy time Mother’s stomach was huge. She was expecting twins. White color, like her and her husband. But I came out. I was black and weighty. Seeing my color Mother was unconscious for two days. But after that she never left me. The whole village talked. My father’s family came to know how black I was. They had that caste and color feeling. They said I was not theirs but a Mala or Madiga girl, not a BC but a SC Schedule Caste girl. I grew up in my grandfather’s house. He worked in Animal Husbandry. He was a communist. His house had a thatch roof but many books. When he became old my grandfather became blind also. I was in school then I would read to him. I would read Illustrated Weekly, Competition Success Review and Soviet Bhumi. I also read the story of the Little Black Fish. We had many books from People’s Publishing House. Father would come to my grandfather’s house at night to trouble Mother. I would hate him. He moved around the house at night like a snake. She would follow him, he would torture and cut her and send her back. Again he would call her and again she would go. For some time afterwards he took her and kept her with him again in his village. Again she became pregnant. In my grandfather’s village the women prayed for her second baby to be also black so Mother could be proved a faithful wife. They sacrificed thirty black hens in the temple for this. Thanks god my brother is born also black. But then again Father sent Mother home and married another woman. I wanted to be a lawyer and put my father behind bars forever. But soon I became influenced by Communism and revolutionary thinking. I read communist literature. My grandfather taught me revolutionary songs and we would sing together. My mother and grandmother stole coconuts and sold them for paying my school fees. They bought me small things and kept me very fashionable and many boys liked me. After passing Intermediate I sat for Medical entrance and got selected but we had no money for fees. So I joined government degree college in Warangal. There Movement was very strong. Inside forest, but outside also. In my first year itself I was recruited by Comrade Nirmalakka and Comrade Laxmi who would visit women’s hostel and talk to us girls about exploitation by the Class Enemy and terrible condition of poverty in our country. From college itself I worked as a part-timer and courier for the Party. Afterwards I worked in the Mahila Sangham—women’s organization, creating class awareness in slums and villages. We became a channel for Party’s communication all over Telangana. We would travel by bus to meetings carrying booklets and pamphlets. We would sing and dance at protest meetings. I read Marx and Lenin and Mao and became convinced of Maoism.

  At the time situation was very dangerous. All police, Cobras, Greyhounds, Andhra Police would be everywhere. Hundreds of Party workers were killed like anything. Maximum hatred police had for women workers. Comrade Nirmalakka when she was killed they ripped her stomach and took out everything. Comrade Laxmi also they not simply killed, but cut, and removed eyes. For her there was big protest. One another Comrade Padmakka they captured and broken both her knees so she could not walk and beat her so she has kidney damage, liver damage, so much damage. She came out from jail now she works in Amarula Bandhu Mithrula Sangathan. Wherever Party people are killed and family is poor and cannot afford to travel to get their person’s body back, she goes. In tractor, Tempo, anything, and brings the body to family for funeral and all those things. In 2008 the situation much worst inside the forest. Operation Green Hunt is announced by Government. War against People. Thousands of police and paramilitary are in the forest. Killing adivasis, burning villages. No adivasi can stay in her house or their village. They sleep in the forest outside at night because at night police come, hundred, two hundred, sometimes five hundred police. They take everything, burn everything, steal everything. Chickens, goats, money. They want adivasi people to vacate forest so they can make a steel township and mining. Thousands are in jail. All this politics you can read outside. Or in our magazine People’s March. So I will only tell you about Udaya. At the time of Green Hunt, Party gave a call for recruitment to PLGA—People’s Liberation Guerrilla Army. At the time I and two others went into Bastar forest for arms training. I worked there for more than six years. Inside sometimes I am called Comrade Maase. It means Black Girl. I like this name. But we keep different names also, each other’s names. Although I am in PLGA, since I am an educated woman, Party also keeps me for outside work. Sometimes I have to go to Warangal, Bhadrachalam or Khammam. Sometimes Narayanpur. This is most dangerous, because now in villages and in towns there are many informers working against us. That is how, one time when I was returning from outside, I was captured in Kudur village. At the time I was dressed in a sari and bangles and handbag and two string pearls. I could not fight. My arrest was not shown. I was tied up and given chloroform and taken to some place I don’t know. When I waked up it was dark. I was in a room with two doors and two windows. It was a classroom. There was a blackboard but no furniture. It was a government school. All schools inside the forests are police camps. No teachers and no students come. I was naked. There was six police aro
und me. One was cutting my skin with a knife-blade. “So you think you are a great heroine?” he asked me. If I closed my eyes they slap me. Two are holding my hands and two are holding legs. “We want to give you a gift for your Party.” They are smoking and putting their cigarettes on me. “You people shout a lot! Shout now and see what happens!” I thought they would kill me like Padmakka and Laxmi but they said “Don’t worry Blackie we will let you go. You must go and tell them what we did to you. You are a great heroine. You supply them with bullets, malaria medicines, food, toothbrushes. All that we know. How many innocent girls have you sent to join your Party? You are spoiling everyone. Now you go and marry someone. Settle down quietly. But first we will give you some marriage experience.” They kept on burning me and cutting me. But I am not crying at all. “Why don’t you scream? Your great leaders will come and save you. You people don’t scream?” Then one man forced open my mouth and one man put his penis in my mouth. I could not breathe. I thought I would die. They kept putting water on my face. Then all raped me many times. One is Udaya’s father. Which, how can I say? I was unconscious. When I waked again I was bleeding everywhere. The door was open. They were outside smoking. I could see my sari. I slowly took it. The back door was open slightly and outside was a paddy field. They saw me running, first they ran after me and I fell but then they said, “Leave it, let her go.” This is the experience of so many women in the forest. From that I took courage. I ran through the fields. It was only moonlight. I reached a tar road. I came onto it. I had only sari. No blouse, no petticoat. I wrapped it somehow. A bus came. I got in. I was barefeet. Bleeding. My face is like a pumpkin. Mouth is huge because they bit it many times. The bus was empty. Conductor did not say anything. He did not ask me for a ticket. I sat near the window and slept because of the chloroform. In Khammam he woke me and said, “This is the last stop.” I got down from the bus. When I came to know it was Khammam I was happy because I know very well one Dr. Gowrinath who has a clinic. I went there. I was walking like a drunk man. I knocked on the door and his wife opened it and screamed. I sat on her bed. I was looking like a mad person. All the cigarette burns were bubbles, on my face, breast, nipples, stomach. Her whole bed was blood. Dr. Gowrinath came and gave me some first aid. I am sleeping always because of chloroform. When I am awake I am only weeping. I only want to go to my comrades inside the forest, Renu, Damayanti, Narmada akka. Dr. Gowrinath kept me for ten days. After that we got a contact from inside and I went back to the forest. I walked for twelve kilometers then a PLGA squad came and we walked five hours more to a camp where District Committee members were. The main leader, Comrade P.K., asked me what happened. He is no more now. He also killed in encounter. At the time I told them, but I was crying and he could not understand anything. First he thought I am complaining about a Party comrade. Comrade P.K. said, “I don’t understand this feelings nonsense. We are soldiers. Tell me like a report without emotions.” So I told him the report. But without my knowledge my eyes are weeping. I showed my injuries for inspection to female comrades. After that they sat for two days to think what to do. Then the committee called me again and said I must go outside and form a “Revathy Atyachar Vedirekh Committee”—Committee Against Revathy’s Rape. In addition I was given responsibility for another program to take over a slum colony with 2000 people and only two handpumps. I am so sick and I have to organize people’s rally for more handpumps. I could not believe it. But they said I must help myself. But I could not go outside because by then I could not walk. Bleeding was not stopped. I was having fits. My wounds were got septic. I could not go out. I could not march with the squads. Again I was left in a forest village. After three months I could walk. By then I was pregnant. But I did not bother. I rejoined PLGA. But when Party came to know they again told me to go outside because PLGA women are banned to have children. I stayed in a forest village till Udaya was born. When I saw her first I felt very much hatred. I felt that six police fellows cutting me with blades and burning me with cigarettes. I thought to kill her. I put my gun on her head but could not fire because she was a small and cute baby. That time there was a big campaign going on outside the forest against War on People. Big Delhi groups organized a public tribunal. Adivasi people who had become victims were called to Delhi to speak to National Media. Party told me to accompany them along with other local lawyers and activists. As I had a small child it was a good cover. I was a very good speaker in Telugu and knew all the facts. They had good translators in Delhi. After the Tribunal I sat with tribal victims for three days public protest in Jantar Mantar. I saw many good people there. But I cannot live outside like them.

  My Party is my Mother and Father. Many times it does many wrong things. Kills wrong people. Women join because they are revolutionaries but also because they cannot bear their sufferings at home. Party says men and women are equal, but still they never understand. I know Comrade Stalin and Chairman Mao have done many good things and many bad things also. But still I cannot leave my Party. I cannot live outside. I saw many good people in Jantar Mantar so I had the idea to leave Udaya there. I cannot be like you and them. I cannot go on hunger-strike and make requests. In the forest every day police is burning killing raping poor people. Outside there is you people to fight and take up issues. But inside there is us only. So I am returned to Dandakaranya to live and die by my gun.

  Thankyou Comrade for reading this.

  Red Salute! Lal Salaam!

  Revathy

  “LAL SALAAM ALEIKUM,” was Anjum’s inadvertent, instinctive response to the end of the letter. That could have been the beginning of a whole political movement, but she had only meant it in the way of an “Ameen” after listening to a moving sermon.

  Each of the listeners recognized, in their own separate ways, something of themselves and their own stories, their own Indo-Pak, in the story of this unknown, faraway woman who was no longer alive. It made them close ranks around Miss Jebeen the Second like a formation of trees, or adult elephants—an impenetrable fortress in which she, unlike her biological mother, would grow up protected and loved.

  What came up for immediate discussion in the graveyard Politburo, however, was whether or not Miss Jebeen the Second should ever know about the letter. Anjum, the General Secretary, was absolutely unambiguous about that. While Miss Jebeen the Second stood on her lap and almost twisted the nose off her face, Anjum said, “She should know about her mother of course. Never about her father.”

  It was decided that Revathy should be buried with full honors in the graveyard. In the absence of her body, her letter would be interred in the grave. (Tilo would keep a photocopy for the record.) Anjum wanted to know what the correct rituals were for the funeral of a communist. (She used the phrase Lal Salaami.) When Dr. Azad Bhartiya said that as far as he knew there were none as such, she was a little disparaging. “What kind of thing is it, then? What kind of people leave their dead without prayers?”

  The next day Dr. Azad Bhartiya procured a red flag. Revathy’s letter was put into an airtight container and then it was wrapped in the flag. While it was buried he sang the Hindi version of “The Internationale” and gave her a clenched-fist Red Salute. Thus ended the second funeral of Miss Jebeen the Second’s first, second or third mother, depending on your perspective.

  The Politburo decided that Miss Jebeen the Second’s full name would, from that day onwards, be Miss Udaya Jebeen. The epitaph on her mother’s tombstone simply read:

  COMRADE MAASE REVATHY

  Beloved mother of Miss Udaya Jebeen

  Lal Salaam

  Dr. Azad Bhartiya tried to teach Miss Udaya Jebeen—she of the six fathers and three mothers (who were stitched together by threads of light)—to clench her fist and say a final “Lal Salaam” to her mother.

  “…’al Salaam,” she gurgled.

  * * *

  * O God, thou art the giver of life / Remover of pain and sorrow / Bestower of happiness / O Creator of the Universe / May we receive thy supreme sin-destroying light / May
thou guide our intellect in the right direction

  11

  THE LANDLORD

  I’m still here. As you must, no doubt, have guessed. I never did check in to that rehabilitation center. It lasted on and off for almost six months, the binge that started when I first arrived. However, I’m sober now—sober for now, is probably how I’m meant to put it. It’s been well over a year since I touched a drink. But it’s too late. I’ve lost my job. Chitra has left me and Rabia and Ania won’t speak to me. Oddly, none of it has made me as unhappy as I imagined it would. I have come to enjoy my solitude.

  Over the last few months, I’ve lived the life of a recluse. Instead of binge drinking, I’ve been binge reading. I have made it my business to pry into every last piece of paper—every document, every report, every letter, every video, every yellow Post-it and every photograph in every file in this apartment. I suppose you could say that I brought the attributes of an addictive personality to this project too—by which I mean single-mindedness coupled with acute guilt and useless remorse. Once I had been through the whole, weird archive, I tried to make amends for my prurience by putting some logic and order into its chaos. Then again, maybe that just counts as further transgression. Either way, I’ve refiled the papers and photographs and packed them into sealed cartons so that, if and when she comes, she can take them away easily. I’ve taken down the noticeboards and made sure the photographs and Post-its are packed in a way that she can put them up again in the same order with little difficulty. All this to say that I have moved in. I live here now, in this apartment. I have nowhere else to go. The rent from the flat downstairs constitutes the better part of my income. Tilo does continue to pay rent into my account, but I plan to return it to her whenever, if ever, I see her again.